
1 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



Shelf ' 

j UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 


































/ 


SIX SINNERS 


SCHOOL DAYS IN BANTAM VALLEY 


CAMPBELL WHEt^ON 





NEW YORK 

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 

182 FIFTH AVENUE 

1877 




*. ' J 


CorYRIGHT, 

1877, 

By G. P. Putnam’s Sons. 


CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER I. 

Haps and Mishaps i 

CHAPTER H. 

On the Throne i6 

CHAPTER HI. 

Beginning . . . . . . . .32 

CHAPTER IV. 

What a Fly did 50 

CHAPTER V. 

Caught 60 

CHAPTER VI. 

From Dark to Daylight 82 

CHAPTER VII. 

The President and Miss Betsey ... 99 

CHAPTER VHI. 

Dark Days 116 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Watching and Waiting . 

CHAPTER X. 

The Turning Point . 

CHAPTER XI. 

By the Firelight 

CHAPTER XH. 


The End 


SIX SINNERS 


CHAPTER 1. 

HAPS AND MISHAPS. 

D ODY ! Dora ! Body ! Theodora ! Oh, 
Body, where are you ? '' 

Jack was almost ready to cry. Half an hour’s 
steady hunting, down in the meadow, under the 
buttonwood trees by the mill-brook, all over the 
house, of course, and now from bottom to top, 
and top to bottom again of the old barn. She 
wasn’t in the wood-house chamber, and I know 
she didn’t go off to play with any of the girls. 
I believe she’s climbed a tree and hid. D^7^?ra ! I 
know something awful, and you’d better believe 
I won’t tell you a word if you don't come out 
quick.” 

I 


2 


SIX SINNERS. 


I don’t believe it,” said a voice from afar. 
‘^You’re always pretending. What is it?” 

Come out,” repeated Jack, severely. 

I can’t come out till I come down, and I can’t 
get down. Jack; I’m stuck.” 

‘‘Stuck where?'' roared Jack, dancing with 
impatience. “ I’ve been everywhere for you, 
and you wasn’t stuck there, else I should a seen 
you.” 

“ In the wood-house roof, and it pinches,' 
squealed Dora, just the hint of a cry making it- 
self heard. “ Come up through the butternut- 
room.” 

“In the wood-house roof!” repeated Jack, 
mechanically, running his hands to the bottom of 
his pockets, and beginning to walk slowly toward 
the wood-house. “ I never heard of such a girl. 
You ought to stick awhile, just to pay you for 
cutting up so. I’ve a great mind to let you.” 

Yet, as Jack threatened, he climbed up the 
ladder leading from the tool-room to the butter- 
nut-room. There were no windows, only two 
round openings at each end, and, for a moment, 
he could see nothing. Then a pair of boots 
waving wildly to and fro became visible, and he 
made toward them. 


HAPS AND MISPIAPS. 


3 


‘‘ Drop, and I’ll catch you. What did you try 
to wiggle through there for ? ” 

I can’t drop,” said Dora. There’s a board 
sprung or something, and all of my dress, and 
some of my arm’s caught in it. You’ll have to 
push it back. Jack.” 

Jack mounted a block of wood used by Dora 
in her progress, and felt about till the loose board 
was found. All his strength could hardly move 
it, but with a grand jerk it presently flew back, 
and Dora half fell, half jumped to the floor, send- 
ing a regiment ' of butternuts flying. Jack sat 
down on the barrel and looked for a minute, with- 
out a word. Then he began : 

Dora Maynard, I’d like to know if there 
aren’t places enough to play in, without your 
squeezing yourself to death getting up a place 
there couldn’t any thing but a squirrel get through ? 
What did you want out on the roof?” 

I didn’t want anything,” Dora said, plaintively, 
picking cobwebs out of.her hair and eyes. But, 
Jack, there’s some little squirrels in there, I know, 
right between that board and the shingles. The 
old squirrels were getting butternuts, and they 
scolded and flew around so, I knew there was 


4 


SIX SINNERS. 


something ; and Fm pretty sure I saw ’em, only 
I got caught trying to put my arm in. See how 
black it is. I guess you’d say it hurt if you had 
it.” 

May be I would, and maybe I wouldn’t,” said 
the young gentleman, pretending scorn, but really 
looking with some anxiety at the black and blue 
mark covering half her arm. ‘‘You run in and 
have grandma put some opodeldoc on it, and I’ll 
feel round for the squirrels.” 

Suiting the action to the word. Jack arose, and 
began cautiously feeling around, but as his arm 
went farther in, withdrew it suddenly, with a howl 
echoed by Dora, who clasped him around the legs 
and held him there. 

“Let go!” roared Jack. “Can’t you let a 
feller alone. I’m bit, awful 1 Now the blood’s 
running all down your apron. Tie me up, can’t 
you ? 

“ I most always do have a rag so’s to tie my- 
self up,” said Dora, forgetting her arm, and turn- 
ing her pocket inside out. There was everything 
but a rag, and Dora at last tore ‘'her handkerchief 
in two, and bound up the streaming finger. “ I 
guess we’ll both go in to grandma,” she said. 


HAPS AND MISHAPS. 


5 


You’d better not, yet awhile ; she and grand- 
pa are talking about you. I heard ’em.” 

About me ? I haven’t done anything — to- 
day,” Dora added, remembering that in past days 
she had done enough to supply conversation for 
a century. 

Grandma’s crying, too,” Jack went on ; and 
they’ve got a great long letter from New York, 
and I heard her say, ‘ I don’t know what will be- 
come of the child among strangers.’ Body,. I do 
believe they’re going to send you to school.” 

I won’t go,” said Dora, shutting her teeth 
hard. Nobody’s any right to take me away 
from here.” 

‘‘Yes they have, too,” Jack said, nursing his 
finger. “Your father can send you just where 
he’s a mind to. The letter’s from him, I know, 
because I heard grandpa read, ‘yours truly, H. 
H. Maynard.’ ” 

“You’re a mean thing, any way, to listen so,” 
burst out Dora. “ I don’t want to hear about 
your hateful old letters. I won’t go to school. 
I’m glad you did get bit. 0-o-o-o-h ! ” and, in a 
passion of tears, Dora cast herself down among 
the butternuts and wailed till Jack, at first indig- 


6 


SIX SINNERS. 


nant, cooled off,' and came down from his perch 
to comfort her. 

''Now, Dody, what’s the use? You know 
you’ve got to go if the letter says so. I’ll pick 
out a whole bag of butternut-meats for you, and 
I’ll pop all my corn, too ; and, Dody, we’ll write 
letters. I’ll tell you everything, and if I do get 
one o’ the squirrels, I’ll tame it, and have it all 
ready when you come home.” 

" But I don’t want to go away from you. Jack, 
or any of ’em,” Dora moaned, rubbing her cheek 
against his, till there was a mutual interchange of 
cobwebs, dust, and tears. 

" Come down, you two chilluns,” sounded old 
Dilly’s voice from below. " Your granther wants 
you. He says, 'Come right away.’ Merciful 
man ! now who could a told that caliker was 
ever clean ? ” she went on, as, after a minute of 
silence, Dora and Jack came down the ladder. 
"Tubs wouldn’t hold all the clothes you spile, 
and chains wouldn’t keep you out o’ mischief 
every blessed minnit you’re awake. It’s a mercy 
there ain’t any more o’ ye.” 

Dilly grumbled all the way back to the kitchen, 
but ended with a chuckle as Dora passed her with 


HAPS AND MISHAPS. 


7 


a little nip at her great arms, and went into the 
room opening out from the bedroom, and called 
office or library, just as it happened. Grandpa 
sat in his big chair, and grandma on the sofa, had 
her knitting, and tried to look just as usual, 
though she turned away her head and looked out 
of the window for some time when the two came 
in. Dora sat down in her own rush-bottomed 
arm-chair, and looked at Mr. Winthrop without 
speaking. 

‘‘Well, Body,’" he said, cheerfully, “here’s 
news for you. A long letter from father, and he 
says he has found just the right place for you. 
A private school where there are only eight little 
girls about your’ own age, and two or three older 
ones. It is in a country town, and there’s plenty 
of ground about it, so you will have almost as 
much freedom as here. Body, why Body!” 

Dora had listened quietly for a moment, but, as 
he went on, first one tear and then another stole 
down, till a whole procession chased over the 
bridge of her nose, and with a great sob, she fled 
to grandma, and buried her head in the sofa 
cushions. “I shan’t go. You needn’t tell me a 
word about it; I don’t want to go to school- 


8 


SIX SINNERS. 


Oh, grandpa! don’t you know enough to teach 
me?” 

“No, my dear, I don’t believe I do,” said 
grandpa, half laughing and half ready to cry him- 
self, as Dora raised her appealing face. “Not, at 
anyfhte, all that yoj||i father wants you to learn. 
You were such a fraiHittle thing we have let you 
run wild a good deal, to strengthen you, and 
your father thinks you will be past training, un- 
less you have a few more rules to keep you 
straight. They are all good ones; very good 
ones,” he added hastily, as Dora’s face took on a 
defiant look which boded ill for the keeping of 
these rules. “And if you are good, you will come 
back to us in the long vacations; six weeks in 
the spring, and sixr-^ the fall. Three whole 
months at home, I^ra,yf you can only remember 
to be good.” ( j 

“What if I don’t r^ora choked. 

“Then you are to stay right on. But, Dora, 
I know you will be good. You want to learn so 
^any things, and have never been content to go 
to school here. Then, you’re ten years old, and 
what a Mde while it will take to jnake a young 
lady.” ' 


HAPS AND MISHAPS. 


9 


‘'I don't want to be a young lady," sighed 
Dora, ‘'I hate 'em. Must I soon, grandpa?" 

^^In three or four weeks, so you have plenty 
of time to get ready for it. Have you cut your- 
self, dear? Where did all that blood come from?" 

‘‘O, that’s Jack!" said to whom the^ree 
or four weeks seemed endless, and who felt like a 
reprieved criminal. '‘This is what I did to myself, 
and I want some opodeldoc on it, grandma." 

‘‘The sleeve is badly torn," said grandma, after 
her pity and wonder were over, and the arm had 
been bathed. "Dora, what shall I do to make 
you more careful? I don't know who there’ll 
be to sew you up when you get away. Now I 
think you must mend this sleeve yourself, just to 
learn." 

"O, but I can't, you kn;ow,Nfor my arm aches 
so I couldn't bend it anywaW grandma, for it’s 
all swelling." 

"Then we’ll keep it till morning, my dear, and 
you can come in here and sew an hour in the 
morning, and one in the afternoon. Now lie 
down and keep quiet a little while, while I tie up 
Jack properly. Why, Dora, 'tisn’t pos4ble you 
tore one of your new handkerchiefs 1 You left 


I 


lO 


SIX SINNERS. 


one in the garden till it mildewed, and let another 
sail down the brook, and now, this is the third.’' 

Dora looked a little ashamed. 

‘‘I didn’t mean to, grandma, but it bled in a 
spirt all over me, and his finger wouldn’t hold a 
whole handkerchief, so you see I had to tear it.” 

^'Well, take off this dress, and get a clean 
apron from your second drawer, and then try to 
keep still.” 

‘'And Dora,” whispered Jack, privately, “come 
down pretty soon, for I’m going to have another 
try at those squirrels.” 

Dora walked up the stairs soberly, and down 
the long hall, to the little room which had been 
her mother’s before her. Here, forgetting apron 
and dress together, she curled up in the wide 
window-seat, and looked over the meadows to the 
great mountain, which ever since she could re- 
mernber had stood there, its peak rising white in 
winter, soft, hazy, purple, or shrouded in mist in 
summer; but always the first thing her eyes 
rested on in the morning. Not the first thing 
either, for Dora’s opening eyes met the sweet, 
steady look of the pictured face that was all she 
knew of her mother, who had left her when a lit- 


HAPS AND MISHAPS. II 

tie baby, but after that first look were sure to go 
straight to the mountain. Dora’s favorite among 
all the psalms began, ‘‘I will lift mine eyes unto 
the hills from whence cometh my help,” and she 
never wondered that David should seem to need 
them, for she did herself every day, and a great 
many times a day. Sitting in the old window- 
seat, when the mood came, she dressed her dolls, 
five of whom spent sadly neglected lives, in or 
under their bed, sometimes undressed for a month, 
and again in full dress for another month, unless 
some motherly little girl, coming in for a Satur- 
day afternoon play, took pity on them. The 
room ran more to hornet’s nests, bird’s nests, 
cocoons and gay pebbles, than to doll’s belong- 
ings, for Dora and Jack wandered together 
through the woods, and came home with all man- • 
ner of creeping and crawling things. Their last 
expedition had resulted in bringing horned very 
small, but very fierce, snapping turtle, which be- 
ing carefully put in Dilly’s bed, •wandered about 
between the sheets, till that mighty body was set- 
tled for the night, and then, indignant at so much 
space being taken up, seized her little toe savagely, 
and held tight. Dilly, almost asleep, believed 


12 


SIX SINNERS. 


the evil one had found her, and sprang from the 
bed, dancing about the room and screaming, 
while the obstinate turtle thumped an accompani- 
ment as she went. Grandpa Winthrop’s strength 
was needed before the wicked jaws would give 
way, and, for a day or two, Dora was in deep 
disgrace. She laughed, now, looking down to 
the box under her window, where the turtle still 
walked about, and then was ready to cry again 
as she remembered that all this must come to an 
end. The kittens, and the pigeons, and Rover, all 
to be left, to say nothing of Jack, the cousin, who 
had come to them six months before, and who 
would stay and enjoy it all when she had gone. 
Then all the girls, and above all, Alma and Julia 
Otis, who lived at the foot of the hill, and came 
up at least once a day. And in thinking of them 
a dreadful fear came over Dora, lest Jack would, 
in time, care more for them than for her. “Per- 
haps he’s gone there now,” she said, and spurred 
on by this thought, changed her dress and apron, 
smoothed her hair a little, and ran down. 

No Jack in the house, but running down the 
hill, Dora heard him calling, and saw him in the 
long grape arbor at the side of the house. 


HAPS AND MISHAPS. 


13 


“I was looking to see if the grapes would be 
ripe before you go away, Dora, but they won't. 
It's only the first of August now, and you've got 
to go in September." 

Don't let's talk about it," said Dora; don't 
want to think about it till the time comes. Let's 
have a good time. Get some pea-pods, and we'll 
go down to the brook and sail 'em." 

‘AVell," said Jack, ^^and you run down for 
Alma and Julia while I get 'em. Tell Bob to 
come too." 

Dora ran fast, but was long in returning, having 
found the two girls sewing patch- work, and with 
a ‘"stent" to finish. So Dora stayed to help them, 
notwithstanding her arm, and hurried back at last, 
to find Jack fuming in the arbor. 

‘T tell you one thing," he shouted, ‘T sha'n't 
ever mind Dr. Phelps's pills again. I've been 
trying while I was waiting, and I can swallow the 
biggest grape here without winking." 

“So can I," said Dora, out of breath with run- 
ning, but looking about for the biggest one to be 
had. 

“You are not as big as he is," said Julia, “and 
your mouth's smaller, too. I wouldn't do it." 


14 


SIX SINNERS. 


“No, I know you wouldn’t,” said Dora, scorn- 
fully. “You’re afraid to do most anything. 
Now I’ll swallow a little one just to sort of stretch 
my throat, you know, and then you see if I can’t 
take as big a one as Jack.” Down went the little 
grape, and Dora, with a — 

“One, two, three. 

Away goes she,” 

popped in the second one, which being fully twice 
as large, went part way and there stayed. Dora 
choked and gasped, but stir it would not, and as 
Jack saw her turning black in the face he pounded 
her furiously on the back, screaming, ''Grand- 
father! Dilly! Dora’s choking!’' 

Dilly heard and ran, and frightened at the 
child’s struggle for breath, first pounded with 
Jack, and then finding this did no good, suddenly 
seized her, turned her neatly upside down, and 
rapped her head against the walk. Out flew the 
grape, and up flew the bumped and beaten, black 
and blue, Dora, ready to scratch Dilly’s eyes 
out for the indignity put upon her. Julia and 
Alma screamed. Jack laughed, and Dilly cried, 
and Grandmother Winthrop running out, and be- 
holding Dora flying at all of them, decided the 
whole family were crazy. 


HAPS AND MISHAPS. 


IS 


Alma told the story and then went home, while 
Jack, as the original first cause, was told to sit still 
an hour, and learn three more verses of Casablanca. 
Dora went in to have her throat gargled, her head 
bathed, and her nose, off which the skin had been 
rubbed, anointed with cream, and then she was 
laid on the sofa and ordered to keep quiet. '‘I 
believe I could have done it,'' she said, presently, 
^'if it hadn't stuck just there." 

‘‘That's just it," said grandpa. “These wild 
things you undertake almost always do stick just 
there. You must learn to use your common 
sense a little, Dora." 

“Jack did it, and I can do whatever he can, 
grandpa." 

“Well, I'm glad there are only girls where you 
are going," said grandma. “And I do hope you 
won't get them to break all their necks at once." 

Dora turned her face away and lay still, and 
when by and by her regular breathing told them 
she was sound asleep, grandpa said, for the twen- 
tieth time that day, “I don’t know what that child 
will do among strangers." 


CHAPTER II. 


ON THE THRONE. 

H OW those four weeks went by! Dora never 
could tell afterwards exactly what was done 
in them, though two hours’ sewing daily was one 
distinct misery. Grandma brought out an old- 
fashioned apron of turkey red, in the last stages 
of tear and rip, and on this apron, with white 
thread, Dora experimented in every possible darn 
and patch. What stitches there were at first, and 
the patches might have been ruffles or puffs, or 
anything but patches. But before September 
came she could almost follow a thread, and each 
stitch stood out “plain as a little pearl,” Jack said, 
when invited to compliment them. Then all the 
way down the back was a line of button-holes, 
beginning with a gash partially covered by stag- 
gering lines of thread, but ending in a great deal 
better button-hole than I am afraid many ten- 


ON THE THRONE. 


17 


year-olds can make now. Grandpa brought out 
a pair of stockings; at least, they were stockings 
once, but toes and heels were missing; one top 
was a flap, and the other had gone to find the 
toes. 

‘‘Mend these Dora, so that I can wear them 
once more,'' said he, “and you shall have five 
dollars in five-cent pieces." 

“You never wore them out like that, I know," 
said Dora, confidently. “I believe you've just 
chopped 'em every way so's to make me the 
most work. I don't care though. I’ll do some- 
thing to ’em." 

Three days Dora worked over those wretched 
stockings, supported by Jack and Alma and Julia, 
who fed her with last year’s butternuts, black- 
caps, and fresh cheeses from that unfailing dairy 
around the door-step, while Dilly threw in crumbs 
of comfort in the shape of saucer pies and little 
cakes. One ball of yarn and part of another 
disappeared before the work was completed, but 
at last came an afternoon when Dora threw her 
yarn and scissors into the air, and with a stocking 
on each arm danced a jig with Jack, while Rover 
barked his congratulations. Then the children 


i8 


SIX SINNERS. 


stuffed the feet with harvest-apples, so that every 
darn stood out in bold relief, and while Dora made 
a wreath of hollyhocks, tiger lilies and small sun- 
flowers, Jack brought out the best silver salver, 
and placed the work of art in the centre. Then 
the procession marched round to the library 
window to the tune of ‘'The Campbells are Com- 
ing.’' Jack had arranged a solemn presentation 
speech, and was scandalized by Dora’s forgetting 
every word, and contenting herself with handing 
the waiter through the window, and saying, 
“Here they are grandpa. Where’s the five dol- 
lars?” 

“Really mended ? ” said grandpa, much amaz- 
ed, but receiving the offering with a stately bow. 
“You shall have your money by five o’clock, 
provided your ladyship can wait.” 

“I did want to do something with it right 
away,” said Dora, “but may be it will do then.” 

“I’m sure it will,” said a voice from within; 
“for I want you till then.” 

“O, it’s Mr. Osgood!” said Dora, beamingly, 
as she skipped through the window. “ I didn’t 
know you had come home.” 

“I’ve only been here an hour or two. Don’t 
you want to walk to the mill-pond ? ” 


ON THE THRONE. 


19 


indeed I do ! Dora said, ‘^but I must tell 
Jack and the rest first.” 

Jack and the girls had, however, disappeared, 
knowing that Dora was lost to them for the rest 
of the afternoon ; and soon she was running down 
the hill to the meadows through which the path 
to the mill-pond wound, followed more slowly by 
her friend. 

Mr. Osgood was the minister of the little church 
to which the Winthrops went, and the children 
never ceased wondering at Dora’s intimacy with 
him. He was a grave, rather silent man at his 
first coming, three or four years before, all of 
which time he had spent in the Winthrop’s south 
chamber, back of which was Dora’s room. This 
south room was a sort of fairy land, filled to run- 
ning over with books and pictures which drew 
Dora like a magnet, and as soon as Mr. Osgood 
found that her harum-scarum ways never ex- 
tended to her treatment of his pets, she had free 
access to them all the time. At first holding him 
in the greatest awe, as I think all children did 
‘their minister twenty years ago, she learned soon 
to look up to him as her nearest friend after 
grandfather and grandmother. Sitting perfectly 


20 


SIX SINNERS. 


quiet in the broad window-seat, he often forgot 
her presence, and read over his sermons or bits 
from his favorite books, while Dora watched him 
with her great eyes, and thought no such delight- 
ful man had ever lived. In the long walks he 
took among the hills and deep into the woods 
where Dora never would have been allowed to 
go alone, she was very often his companion, and 
learned the way to all sorts of strange places, to 
which she was able by and by to introduce Jack. 

All but one of them, and this special spot had 
such sacredness in her eyes that I doubt if she 
would hardly have been willing to take grand- 
father himself there. Going back from the mill- 
pond into thick woods, which even the village 
boys knew little about, you came soon to a branch 
of the mill-brook, and following it up half a mile 
or so, it broadened into almost a pond, in the 
centre of which was a high rock, from which grew 
one tall hemlock. How it grew was hard to tell, 
for there seemed only earth enough to give life 
to the ferns and grasses about, its roots, but grow 
it did, taller and statelier than any tree Dora had 
ever seen. In June had been their first visit, 
when the water was still high from spring freshets, 


ON THE THRONE. 


21 


and as they looked up to the rock, Dora said,‘'0, 
how I wish we could get up there.’' 

Exactly where we are going,” Mr. Osgood 
said, pulling off his boots and setting them on a 
log. ‘^Now Dora, put your arms around my 
neck; let me get hold of your small shoes, and 
over we go.” 

The water was not deep after all, not much 
over the knees, and in a minute Dora was scram- 
bling up the sides, and finding between two roots 
a natural arm-chair, quite wide enough for two, 
moss-cushioned, and spicy with fallen leaves and 
cones. Through the opening in the forest, the 
mountain looked down upon them, and the birds 
sang on, as if people who came to such lonely 
places must belong there naturally, and were not 
to be feared. Mr. Osgood sat silently looking 
far off, and Dora, quiet too, leaned her head 
against his arm and felt perfectly content. 

‘‘You never brought me here before,” she said, 
by and by; “I didn’t know there was such a 
nice place in the world. Why didn’t you bring 
me before ? ” 

“Because I didn’t know as we were good 
friends enough: I only want to bring the people 
that I love best here.” 


22 


SIX SINNERS. 


Dora cuddled up closer, and was still a minute, 
then she said : 

‘‘I wish I was your little wife so’t I could go 
everywhere with you. Don’t you wish I was?” 

Mr. Osgood smiled, but the very grave eyes 
which looked at him forbade any such levity. 

‘‘ I’m afraid it wouldn’t do, Dolly. You were 
eight in March, I believe. We shall have to wait 
a little.” 

“ Well, will you wait?” persisted Dora. I can 
do a great many things now, and you know I 
shall be learning all the time. You can teach me 
too. I love you harder’n anybody.” 

''Do you, child?” said Mr. Osgood with a lit- 
tle look she did not understand. ‘'Well, we’ll 
think about it.” 

That was over a year ago, and this had been 
their favorite walk ever since. Here Dora had 
talked over her plans for the future, confessed her 
sins, and had made tremendous resolutions, bro- 
ken and re-made every few weeks. To-day Au- 
gust heats had lowered the brook, till she could 
easily reach “the throne” as she called it, by 
jumping from one stone to another. The last 
was a long leap, but Mr. Osgood swung her over, 


ON THE THRONE. 


23 * 


and soon she was in the old seat. Then a sudden 
memory of all she must leave came over her, and 
holding tight to his hand she cried for a little 
while some very bitter tears. Mr. Osgood said 
little, but drew her into his arms, and held her 
till she was more quiet. Then he asked: 

^'Did you know I was going with you, Dora?” 

. ‘^To school? Why how can you? Not to 
stay! Oh, I’m so glad! What makes you?” 

‘^Because your grandmother is not well enough 
to be left by your grandfather, and your father 
cannot take time to come on for you. He is 
very busy now.” 

‘‘Yes, I know,” said Dora, absently. “He al- 
ways is busy. He hasn’t been here but once 
since I was a baby, and then he didn’t say any- 
thing to me hardly. I don’t believe he loves me 
a bit.” 

“ He loves you enough to have found this 
pleasant school for you, and to want you to learn 
how to be a good woman. He has never had 
you with him, Dody, or any other child, I think, 
and hardly knows what to say to one.” 

“ Well, I don’t mind it much,” said Dora, “ but 
there is one thing I keep thinking about, Mr. 


24 


SIX SINNER‘ 


Osgood. You know what I do so much without 
meaning to,” here Dora turned very red, but 
hurried on. “ Now just suppose I should get go- 
ing there, and couldn’t stop, you know, and they 
should all think just as father does that I — well, 
that I tell lies. I don’t tell real true lies, now, do 
I ? It’s only stories for fun,” 

Mr. Osgood waited a moment. “ Can’t you 
think just what they are yourself?” he said. 
“ What was it when you told old Mrs. Stevens 
that there was a singing mouse in the wall in your 
room, and that you fed it every day, and it could 
sing ‘ There is a happy land,’ straight through, 
and you heard it teaching it to the other mice ? ” 
“ Well, it was partly true any way,” Dora said, 
eagerly. “ I did feed it, and I thought may be it 
might sing. I’ve read about singing mice.” 

“ And then when grandfather was altering the 
barn, you told Mr.' Pettis your father had bought 
you a little, tame elephant with a seat on his 
back, just like those in the menagerie, and you 
were going to ride every day. When he said, 
‘O sho, now ! ’ you declared so solemn^ it was 
so, that he went to the post-office, and told every- 
body your father was crazy, and your grandfather 


ON THE THRONE. 


25 


too. Then when old aunt Patty asked you to 
buy her some tea, you said she needn’t ever buy 
any more, for your father had given you the 
money, and you had got a big box for her. So 
the poor soul waited a week, expecting it every 
day, and at last asked me. What could I say, 
and what do you really think about it, Dora ? ” 
Dead silence, and Dora looking steadfastly at 
the toes of her boots. Mr. Osgood sat watching 
her, and almost laughed aloud as he remembered 
something which had happened two years before. 
Sitting with his doors open he had heard Dora in 
her own room, going to bed under aunt Katy’s 
superintendence. Almost every day she told 
some wonderful story founded on fiction, but had 
been making a special effort to reform. So in 
saying her prayers that night she congratulated 
herself on having been all day strictly truthful, 
in this fashion: 

God bless grandpa and grandma, and every- 
body, make me a good girl, and I’m glad I haven’t 
told any fibs to-day.” 

Wait a minute, Dora,” said aunt Kate. 
*‘What did I hear you telling Dilly this after- 
noon, about your father buying ten pink dresses 


2 


26 


SIX SINNERS. 


all alike, and you were going to give one to all 
the little girls you liked best ? 

O, so I did ! said Dora, conscience smitten. 

And I never thought. Do you believe I’d 
better say something about it ? ” 

'' Why it seems to me I should want to settle 
it before going to sleep,” said aunt Kate, and 
kneeling down again, Dora added fervently, Only 
one, God; only one.” 

All this went through Mr. Osgood’s mind much 
more quickly than I can write it, and Dora still 
sat silent. 

‘‘ I’ll tell you what it is, Dora,” he said at last. 

God has given you in your little garden a won- 
derful plant called imagination. Truth and honor 
and gentleness and many another good thing 
grow side by side, but unless you continually 
prune this quick growing fancy it overtops every- 
thing else, and poor truth dies down. Keep it 
trained just right, and everything in your garden 
is made more beautiful and lovely by it. But if 
you forget even for a minute or two, it flies up 
like Jack’s bean stalk, and spoils all the work you 
have done for truth. Do you understand ? ” 
‘‘Yes,” said Dora, in a very faint voice. 


ON THE THRONE. 


27 


Now I don’t think you tell lies in the way I 
have heard some children, and big people, too. 
You never, since I have known you, have told 
one to screen yourself from the results of mis- 
chief or wrong doing, or one that could harm 
any one else. But that isn’t the thing. In your 
little soul I know you love truth. You are going 
where people do not know you as I do, and may 
have to suffer for this very thing. Dear child, 
try to remember all day and every day to care 
for all those other plants, but let imagination be 
kept low down, till it has learned not to creep 
into the wrong places. Will you try ? ” 

Oh, I will ! Truly I will ! ” said Dora, fer- 
vently. 

Do you remember the story of Prince Cherry 
and the ring that pricked him whenever he did 
wrong ? Well, my ring doesn’t prick, but I hope 
it will answer the same purpose. Which finger 
will it best fit, Dody ? ” 

Mr. Osgood had drawn a little box from his 
pocket, and now took from it a ring in which 
were set six stones. A ring, such as, years ago, 
little and big girls were glad to own, but which 
one seldom sees now-a-days. 


28 


SIX SINNERS. 


Take the first letter of each stone as I name 
it,” he said, ‘'and see what it spells. Ruby, 
emerald, garnet, amethyst, ruby, diamond.” 

“ R. E. G. A. R. D.” said Dora, with delight. 
“That means love, doesn’t it? Well, I do love 
you, and I shall never forget, seems to me. You 
don’t know how I shall try. Now put it on your 
own self, please.” 

Mr. Osgood slipped it on her left hand fore- 
finger, which it fitted as if made for it. “ These 
stones all mean something, too,” he said, “or at 
any rate people in old times thought they did. 
Ruby is love, and there are two of them you 
see, because love is the chief thing in the world. 
Amethyst is purity; emerald, strength; garnet, 
steadfastness, which is the same thing as strength. 
It means the power to say ‘ no ’ to even the 
pleasantest thing that is wrong. And diamond 
is faithfulness, which covers the whole ground, 
for if you are thoroughly faithful, you will be pure 
and steady, throughout all the days of your life. 
I’ve preached you a long sermon. Body dear, 
but we shall not come to our ‘throne’ again be- 
fore next spring, I suppose.” 

Dora put her arms about Mr. Osgood’s neck, 


ON THE THRONE. 


29 


and held him tight a moment. Then still hold- 
ing her, he went down the rock, and over the 
stepping stones to the shore. ‘‘You will not be 
a little body much longer,” he said, as he put her 
down, “ and when we come again next spring you 
may be able to carry me over — who knows ? ” 

Tea was waiting when they got home, and 
waited still longer, while Dora showed her ring, 
and then pounced on a small, rather grimy, and 
very heavy bag by her plate. 

Jack’s knife had been waiting impatiently for 
an hour to cut the string, and now he did it with 
such vigor, that a silvery shower fell out and roll- 
ed every way. 

“ O, you hateful thing ! ” was almost on the tip 
of Dora’s tongue, but she thought just in time, as 
Jack said, penitently, “ I’ll pick ’em every one up 
after tea. I’d put ’em in a bank, Dora, and then 
you can’t get out enough at a time to do any 
harm.” 

Dora’s eyes had in the mean time caught sight 
of something else. “ O, what’s that ? ” she said. 

“ A new trunk ! I can’t eat my supper, grandma. ' 
Can’t I look at it now ? ” 

“ Eat first,” said grandma, and Dora, much 


30 


SIX SINNERS. 


against her will began, but found things really 
tasted good after her long walk. At last when 
the hundred five-cent pieces had all been picked 
up and admired, and laid on a plate for future 
-consideration, Mr. Winthrop opened the trunk, a 
large leather one, all the way from New York, 
and with her name painted on the cover. Inside 
was a writing-desk, with every possible conven- 
ience for writing, and a dressing-case holding 
such an assortment of brushes and boxes as Dora 
had never seen. There were one or two pieces 
of soft, bright merino for dresses, and a little 
hood trimmed with swan’s down, which delighted 
Dora’s soul. To this was pinned a bit of paper, 
and on it Dora read. 

''For Dora, from her affectionate father.” 

" I guess he does care about me some,” she 
thought, beginning to believe there were com- 
pensations in going to school, and wondering at 
the little feeling of eagerness which came over 
her, as she remembered there were only four 
days longer. 

Those four days were well filled. The village 
dress-maker was busy on her new dresses as she 
had been for some time before. Grandma and 


ON THE THRONE. 


31 


Dilly prepared for, and saw safely through, a par- 
ty for all the little girls, and Dora went about bid- 
ding everybody good-bye. The trunk was pack- 
ed a dozen times with an extraordinary variety of 
things shocking to the feelings of the most amia- 
ble teacher, and all carefully removed by grand- 
mother. Then came a real packing with which 
Dora had little to do, and at last the trunk stood, 
strapped and directed. It was good that they 
started early in the morning, rather than at night, 
for Dora had barely time to eat a little breakfast, 
take one more look at all the pleasant places, 
and then blind with tears, and begging not to be 
sent away, stumbled into the old stage which 
took them to the depot. Half the children in 
town were there to see her off, and Dora tried to 
say good-bye to each, but broke down again, 
and was lifted by grandfather into the cars, and 
hugged once more as the dreadful whistle sound- 
ed. Then a jerk, a dozen of them, and Dora 
flattening her unhappy nose against the car win- 
dow looked her last look for many a day at the 
crowd of familiar faces. 


CHAPTER III. 


BEGINNING. 



‘WENTY years ago a railroad journey was 


X a wonderful event in a child’s life, and by 
no means a common one to even a grown up.” 
The road through Windsor had only been fin- 
ished a short time, and had Dora started six 
months before, it would have been in an old- 
fashioned four-horse stage, rocking like a big cra- 
dle, and needing two or three days for the jour- 
ney she would take in one. They were to stay 
in New Haven over night, and to go on to Edge- 
field the next day; and Dora, after her first burst 
of sorrow ended, could not but be interested. 
Claremont she knew all about, and half a dozen 
other little towns, and when they stopped at Bel- 
lows Falls to change cars, she had time to go 
down to the Island House to look at the rapids 
for nearly half an hour. After that they went 


BEGINNING. 


33 


steadily on, only stopping at Springfield for din- 
ner, and late in the afternoon rumbled into the 
dark hole that then as now the benighted New 
Havenites called depot. Dora walked about the 
college green, but was too tired to enjoy much, 
and went to bed directly after supper. 

By noon next day they had reached Wolcott- 
ville, the nearest railroad station to Edgefield, ten 
miles away. 

‘‘I wish I could go with you to the end, Dora,” 
said Mr. Osgood; ‘‘but the train I must take if I 
am to be in my church Sunday, passes here in an 
hour. The stage does not leave here till then, 
and we can take a little walk, or sit quietly, just 
as you choose.” 

“A walk,” Dora said, eager to get away from 
the curious eyes all about, that watched her as 
eyes at country stations always will; and when 
Mr. Osgood had seen her trunk strapped to the 
stage rack, they walked briskly away. There 
should be no crying this last hour, he determined, 
and Dora, who thought she was utterly miserable, 
found herself laughing harder and harder, as he 
told one queer story and then another. They 
were at the top of the hill when the whistle 


2 ^ 


34 


SIX SINNERS. 


sounded at the station two miles above Wolcott- 
ville, and they must run like “all possessed,” 
Dora said. Run they did, and the loungers 
stared at the dignified gentleman in the white 
cravat, who rushed down the hill, closely pursued 
by Dora, bundled her into the stage with a hasty 
hug, and plunged across the platform to the train 
just beginning to move off, giving a final wave as 
a curve hid them from sight. 

Three or four people got into the stage. A 
little woman with a big band-box shrouded in a 
red calico cover; two men, and at last a stout wo- 
man with an equally stout daughter, not over 
twelve or thirteen; but Dora wondered how she 
staid in her clothes at all, for she seemed to bulge 
out and run over wherever she could; over the 
tops of her boots and her gloves, and the ruffles 
round her neck. She had bright twinkling eyes, 
and within three minutes of settling in the stage, 
had opened a wicker basket and taken out a 
pickle. 

“Now, Cynthy, don’t,” said the stout woman; 
“you won’t want a mite o’ dinner.” 

“You know you said I’d have to eat vinegar 
to keep me down,” remarked Miss Cynthia, bit- 


BEGINNING. 


3S 


ing her pickle. Don’t you want one?” she 
added, turning to Dora: 'Tve got a jar of ’em 
in here.” 

^'No, thank you,” said Dora, amazed at her 
ease; ‘'I don’t like pickles.” Then remembering 
this was not exactly polite — mean, no, I thank 
you.” 

‘^Was that your father that came lickity-split 
down the hill?” pursued Cynthia, evidently bent 
upon both acquaintance and information. 

‘"No,” said Dora, unable to help smiling at the 
memory of it. 

‘^What relation was he?” 

‘^Not any.” 

‘^Oh, your guardeen? Be you an orphan?” 

‘^No,” said Dora, beginning to feel a little in- 
dignant, and determined not to tell anything she 
could help. 

‘‘Oh!” said Cynthia, staring at her: “you’re 
going to Miss Jones’s, ain’t you?” 

“I’m going to Miss Jones’s school.” 

“So’m I. I’ve been a term before. I’m the 
oldest of the little girls. I knew there was a 
new one coming. Now there’ll be eight of us, 
an’ that’s all Miss Jones’ll take. My name’s 


36 


SIX SINNERS. 


Cynthia Almira Bostwick, and they call me 
^ Fatty Bostwick.' I don’t care. What’s yours?” 

^'Theodora Winthrop Maynard.” 

^'My gracious! don’t they ever call you any- 
thing shorter?” 

‘'They call me Dora,” said Dora, again indig- 
nant. 

‘T should think they’d better,” said Miss Cyn- 
thia, paying no attention to a warning nudge 
from her mother. “Was you named for any- 
body, or did your ma make it up? Ma made 

» • 

mine up. 

“Is it .a nice school?” asked Dora, changing 
subject. 

“You have to study awful hard. I study ev- 
erything; French and music, too, so’s to keep me 
down, but it don’t do any good. Ma says she 
was just so. It’s kind of handy when you can’t 
have feathers to sleep on. Miss Jones won’t let 
us sleep on feathers, an’ she makes us keep the 
window open nights. Ma said it would kill me, 
and some of us used to get up and shut ’em. 
Miss Jones heard it. She hears everything, and 
she popped in every time and let ’em down 
again. She says her house shall have the Lord’s 


BEGINNING. 


37 


air blowing through it, and not be filled with a 
horrid meas of gas blown out of his miserable 
creatures. I never knew till I went there, that 
there was so much dirt about people. You’d 
think we’d lived in mud puddles all our days, to 
see the way she makes us scrub. And if you 
won’t do it yourself she’ll do it for you, and not 
mind a speck about taking some skin off. Ma 
thought it would take me down, but it don’t.” 

Dora made a mental resolution to do her own 
scrubbing, and waited for more developments. 

‘^Oh, I guess you’ll think it’s queer,” said Cyn- 
thia, the last end of her pickle disappearing, as 
she felt in her basket for another. ^'Now, I’ve 
got to eat these every one up — you’d better have 
one — or else put ’em in the common closet. 
That’s a closet where everything has to go. that 
anybody sends th*e girls, unless it’s apples or or- 
anges. All the cakes, and pies, and everything 
out o’ the boxes. She won’t let you eat a mite 
of ’em between meals, but puts ’em on for tea or 
dinner, and everybody has some. I’d just as 
soon give ’em all some, but I say it’s mean you 
c.an’t keep a little to eat when you’re hungry.” 

''Can’t you have anything between meals?” 


38 


SIX, SINNERS. 


asked Dora, remembering Billy’s bounty, and 
thinking, also, of a certain great cake in her 
trunk. 

‘‘Not a speck of anything but apples or bread. 
She says if you’re hungry enough for bread, you 
shan’t be denied, but she won’t have us filling 
ourselves with unwholesomeness. I tell you I 
eat when I get home! But you have pretty 
good times, only she’s after you every minute.” 

“Did you hear about tbe way she fit with the 
sexton last winter?” said one of the men, turning 
to Mrs. Bostwick. “Now it did just beat all. 
Hiram (that’s the sexton) he’d gone and nailed 
up all the winders, and stuffed the cracks with 
cotton, and tacked listing all along to keep the 
wind out. The church is on a hill, you know, 
and the wind blows powerful. Miss Jones has 
three pews right up in front, and a winder along- 
side. She always comes early, so’s to see to 
things, an’ she come marching in with her twelve 
gals an’ old Miss Jones and Uncle Isaac. Set 
’em all down, and set herself down, an’ then she 
begun to sniff Begun to fan a minit, but that 
didn’t do; then she sniffed agin; an’ then she 
mounts up on her seat, an looks at the winder 


BEGINNING. 


39 


^Ah, I thought so/ says she; an’ she took hold 
of that listing an’ yanked it right off. The cotton 
was stuffed in tight, but she off with her gloves, 
and out it comes. Hiram’s a little softly kind o’ 
man, but it sort o’ riled him, and he steps round: 
‘Now, Miss Jones,’ says he, ‘there ain’t no use in 
that, rn just have to put it all back. It takes 
more wood now than the congregation’s willing to 
pay for to keep us comfortable, and you haven’t 
no call to let in such a draught’ ‘Sorry you’ve 
had your work for nothing’ says Miss Jones, with 
her ma kind o’ shivering all the time, ‘but in the 
Lord’s house I’ll breathe the Lord’s air. I don’t 
bring my school here to poison them in the sanct- 
uary.’ Hiram couldn’t say nothing more, for 
there was strangers there, an’ old Judge Church 
a beckonin’ to him like mad to come an’ seat ’em. 
Between services, though, he stuffed that cotton 
all back, an’ nailed the listing with a double row of 
nails. ‘She won’t get that off in a hurry,’ says he. 
Well, come church time agin, and she looked fust 
thing at the winder. That beat her, for without a 
claw she couldn’t stir an inch of it. She worked 
an’ worked, an’ when she found she couldn’t do 
nothin’, she jest up with her pa’s cane an’ smashed 


40 


SIX SINNERS. 


a light in the top o’ the winder. Hiram was so as- 
tonished he didn’t come nigh her. Reckon he 
thought she might take him in the head, but after 
service Dr. Stone comes down and says: ‘My 
dear Miss Jones, wasn’t that a little injudicious?’ 
‘Not a bit,’ says she; “I’ll break a pane every Sun- 
day till Hiram takes that stuff away, or else I’ll give 
up my sittings here, and go off to the Methodists. 
You’re a man of sense. Dr. Stone,’ says she; ‘and 
ought to be thankful to me for letting in a decent 
breath.’ Dr. Stone sort o’ smiled, and Hiram, 
who’d been standin’ there, mad as a hatter, kind 
o’ thought he might as well knuckle down to’t, 
else she’d go off. He took off the listing, but 
she had to pay for a new pane.” 

“That’s her all over,” said Mrs. Bostwick; “but 
she’s a good teacher. Makes ’em learn, whether 
they will or not.” 

Dora listened, wondering what sort of a life she 
should lead, and prepared to be put in a cold 
bath or set in a draught the moment she arrived. 
The way seemed short, beguiled as it was by 
such reminiscences; the stage horses were strong, 
and kept up a steady jog up hill and down, and 
before she knew it they were whisked up before a 


BEGINNING. 


41 


big gate, and looking through a line of great elms, 
she saw a white house, and a swarm of girls about 
the door. 

‘^It’s Fatty! It’s Fatty Bostwick! ” the shout 
went up, and a rush was made to the stage. 
Fatty tried to jump, but rolled instead, as would 
naturally have been expected, and landed on her 
nose on the grass, while the pickles, emulating 
her example, rolled too, as the basket lid flew off. 

^^Let me have one! and me! and me!” shouted 
the chorus, pouncing upon the pickles, while Mrs. 
Bostwick picked up the fallen Cynthia, and brush- 
ed her off and smoothed her down. 

‘‘Now Cynthy, do have some manners,” she 
said. “There’s Miss Jones coming.” 

“I thought it was you, Cynthia Bostwick,” said 
a voice from the door- way. “I smelled pickles 
when the stage was at the top of the hill. How 
do you do, Mrs. Bostwick? So you’ve brought 
Cynthia to have me undo your four week’s work. 
Well, I will if I can. So every one of you has got 
pickles! Now some mince-pie and we shall have 
the representative American girl. Here’s one 
empty handed. Who are you, my dear?” 

The keen gray eyes rested not unkindly on 


42 


SIX SINNERS. 


Dora, who, lost in astonishment, faltered ‘‘Dora 
Maynard,” and then stood still, wishing she were 
under, or out of, or anywhere but in the spot she 
was. 

“Ah! yes; just so,^' said Miss Jones, slowly. 
“Well, Dora, you seem to have come with Cyn- 
thia, and she will tell you the names of the girls, 
and show you your room. I will see you after 
tea. You can unpack your trunk this afternoon. 
H^re is your room-mate, Ida Thorn. She will 
take you up-stairs and show you where to put 
your things.” 

Ida cariie forward — a delicate girl of nine or 
ten, with long brown curls, held back by a silver 
comb, at which Dora looked with delight. Her 
own hair had been curly once, but repeated cut- 
tings had left only what Dilly called “just a 
kick up on the ends,” and though she privately 
experimented with hot slate pencils and papers it 
was still too short for anything but the kick. Ida 
led the way up the front stairs and through a 
wide upper hall, where stood a great soap-stone 
stove. 

“That’s where we get warm in winter,” said 
Ida. “We don’t have fires in our rooms, but we 


BEGINNING. 43 

can run out there to dress if we want to. That’s 
Miss Jones’s room on one side, and the big girls 
have the others. There’s a partition in the mid- 
dle, just as there is in ours, for she won’t let but 
two be in a room. There’s a hole in our parti- 
tion, where a knot came out, or something, and 
we can talk through all we’ve a mind to. We’ve 
got to keep it clean too. Can you sweep?’' 

Before Dora had time to answer, a door was 
thrown open, and showed a room a little larger 
than her own at home, and looking beautifully 
clean and sweet with its white bed and curtained 
window. There was a tall, old-fashioned bureau, 
with six drawers, at one side of which stood Ida’s 
trunk, while room had been left on the other for 
Dora’s. Two low chairs stood by the window, 
and Dora ran to it at once to see what her future 
out-look was to be. No mountain, as at home, 
but a long range of low hills in the distance, and 
nearer by one high one. Underneath the window 
a grape vine climbed up, and the trees of a great 
orchard stretched away to a brook, at one end 
crossed by a little bridge. 

‘‘That’s ‘Sugar-loaf,” said Ida, pointing to the 
hill; “and we can go there just when we choose, 


44 


SIX SINNERS. 


if our marks are good. There always is a Sugar- « 
loaf everyplace I’ve been. There’s four shelves 
in the closet, two for each of us, and five hooks 
apiece. We’ve got the best bureau there is, be- 
cause there’a two drawers in the top, and we can 
each have a side. All the girls fight so for a top 
drawer. The washstand’s behind that screen. I 
guess you’ll hate it as much as I do after you’ve 
been here a while. Don’t you want I should help 
you unpack ?” 

Dora would gladly have said ^'no,” but hardly 
dared to, and Ida, perched on one of the chairs, 
watched the taking out of each article, and advised 
as to its placfe, besides giving full opinions as to 
quality and style. 

‘'Your things are nice enough,” she said at 
last; “but you ought to see Mississippi Smith’s. 
She came two days ago, way from Indiana, and 
she had so many dresses there wasn’t room in the 
closet for one of Clem’s things — Clem’s my sister. 
She said she would hang ’em all up anyway; so 
Clem went to Miss Jones and told her she wished 
she could have another room, for nobody could 
turn round where Sippy was. You ought to 
have seen Miss Jones come marching down the 


BEGINNING. 


45 


hall. ‘Lay your dresses on the bed, Mississippi,' 
says she, ‘and we will soon find out what you 
need. That pink silk and the blue one Til take 
and put in the linen room, and these bareges can be 
folded and go back to the bottom of your trunk. 
Eighteen dresses! Well; four of them you can 
keep out, and I’ll write to your mother that that 
is all any girl needs in the winter. Two are plenty 
— one for school and ©ne for Sunday; but I won’t 
cut you down to that now.’ Sippy kept making 
the awfullest faces at her when she wasn’t looking, 
but it didn’t do any good. She’s got lots of jew- 
elry, too, and she has so much money she doesn’t 
know what to do. Are you all thrSugh ? because 
if you are. I’ll take you down to the school- room, 
and tell you about all the girls.” 

“Isn’t there any teacher but Miss Jones?” 
Dora asked. 

“Oh, yes; there’s Miss Miller — she’s a kind of 
scholar too, but she see’s to us down here. Her 
room’s right at the end between all of ours, and 
she marks us if we make too much noise. Mr. 
Bush comes to give us music lessons, and Mung- 
seer Germain is the French teacher. Can you 
talk French?” 


46 


SIX SINNERS. 


‘‘No/’ said Dora; “I wish I could.” 

“I can, some; one of the big girls taught me. 
I can say ‘hickory, dickory dock’ in French.” 

“O, let’s hear it,” Dora began, but stopped as 
the bell rung. “What’s that for?” 

“That’s the first bell for tea. There’s always 
two for every meal with ten minutes between, 
and you have to wash your face and hands, and 
brush your hair, and go right down for inspec- 
tion.” 

. “In what?” Dora said to herself, splashing 
away, and speedily pulled along by Ida to the 
school-room, where stood in a line six little girls. 
Dora took her place next an over-dressed child 
who she tho ^ ht must be Mississippi, and waited. 
In a minute Miss Jones came in and passed 
quickly down the line. “Hold your hands out 
so’t she can see,” whispered Ida, and Dora, not 
in the least knowing what was wanted, held them 
out as far as she could. 

“Shameful nails,” said Miss Jones, stopping 
at the third little girl. “Dolly Baldwin, don’t let 
it happen again. Go up-stairs and clean them. 
Dora Maynard, what have you got on your 
hands! ink? You are not to use ink except in 
school.’' 


BEGINNING. 


47 


‘‘It's blackberries," said Dora, her cheeks dyed 
as deeply as her hands. “I got them on the hill 
at the station, and it won’t come off." 

“That is an accident then and does not count," 
said Miss Jones. “Now walk quietly to the din- 
ing-room," and heading the procession she led 
the way to a long square room where stood a 
long table on which were pitchers of milk, platters 
of baked apples, bread, brown and white, and 
piles of gingerbread. An old, white haired gen- 
tleman stood at one end, and as all paused behind 
their chairs, tapped on the table and after a mo- 
ment’s silence sat down. 

“What’s that for?" asked Dora in a whisper. 

“ Silent blessing," Ida answered. “ How fright- 
ened you looked at inspection. She won’t do 
it but once a day after we get going just right, 
but the first two or three weeks she looks at us 
three times a day, so as to get us into the right 
way she says. You’ve got to be clean whether 
you want to or not.’’ 

“I am clean,’’ said Dora, indignantly. “I’ve 
always lived with clean people." 

“Well, you’ll have to be here," said Ida, not 
caring to pursue the subject. “To-morrow morn- 


48 


SIX SINNERS. 


ing school will begin, for now we’re all here. 
She’ll examine you to-night may be.” 

Dora’s heart sank within her, but revived a lit- 
tle as she went on with her bread and butter, 
which was perfect as bread and butter could be. 
The tall old clock in the corner was like the one 
at Grandfather Winthrop’s, and a secretary like 
his stood in one corner. Dora, looking about 
curiously, felt comforted as she saw these familiar 
objects, and still more so as she met the kindly 
eyes of the old gentleman at the head, who smiled 
at her like an old friend. Tea over. Miss Jones 
went with Dora to her room; approved of her 
arrangement of her clothes; confiscated the big 
cake, of course, and then asked a series of ques- 
tions as to what she had learned and knew, lead- 
ing her on so quietly that she hardly realized it 
was an examination. In the midst of it another 
bell rang and Dora was taken to the parlor, where 
Miss Miller played the evening hymn, while the 
girls sang very sweetly. 

^‘Remember the rules,” was Miss Jones’s last 
word. ‘'Clean your teeth all of you before going 
to bed.” 

Dora expected to cry, but was asleep almost 


BEGINNING. 


49 


before her head touched the pillow, and knew 
nothing more until a bell rang and she sprang up 
to find the morning sunshine streaming in, while 
a series of groans and splashes and' shivers, 
showed that Ida had begun the dreaded daily 
sponging. 

3 


CHAPTER IV. 


WHAT A FLY DID. 

S ATURDAY passed slowly and yet quickly. 

Lesions were given out for Monday, and they 
studied for two hours. Mmtgseer, as Ida called 
him, came in and organized his classes, and Mr. 
Bush settled the hours for music-lessons. Dora 
was introduced to Miss Miller, a sharp-eyed, not 
exactly pleasant-looking person, who hoped they 
should be good friends, which Dora doubted. By 
dinner-time she knew the names of all the girls, 
big and little. Miss Miller, the oldest of the old 
ones, then Maria Baldwin, Dolly’s sister, and then 
Ellen Woodland, a sentimental-looking young 
lady, who carried ivory tablets in her pocket, and 
wore a ribbon with a heart for a slide, and a gold 
pencil at the end. She had dreamy blue eyes, 
and sat tapping her teeth with the pencil; and 
looking off into nowhere, till Miss Jones said, 
rather severely as Dora thought: 


WHAT A FLY DID. 


SI 


‘‘Now, Miss Woodland, if you’ll be good 
enough to bring your mind for a few moments 
down to our hum-drum level, you will find occu- 
pation in this algebra.” 

“I despise mathematics,” murmured Miss 
Woodland, “they degrade all one’s fine feelings.” 

“ People have no business with fine feelings till 
they have a foundation of a few fine facts,” said 
Miss Jones, and then added, as she saw Dora’s 
eyes fixed upon her, “common sense is a valua- 
ble faculty, and the want of it ’does not indicate 
one is a genius.” 

Miss Woodland colored and bent over her al- 
gebra, and Cynthia whispered, “She always talks 
just so, but that don’t hinder Ellen from writing 
beautiful poetry. You ought to see some there 
is in my album. She wrote it when my kitten 
died.” 

“O! can you have kittens?” said Dora, de- 
lightedly. 

“ To be sure. There’s ten in the barn this 
minute; but they’re only allowed to come into 
the house Wednesday and Saturday afternoons, 
when we have half-holidays. I’ll show ’em to 
you this afternoon.” 


52 


SIX SINNERS. 


I’ll show ’em to her,” whispered Ida, who 
had developed a warm affection for Dora, and 
sat now with her arm around her. ‘'She’s my 
room-mate.” 

“Well, I guess folks can speak to her if she is 
other folks’ room-mate,” said Cynthia, bridling. 
“ I guess we’re all going to play together, Ida 
5Phorn.” 

Dora felt uncomfortable, and was glad when 
the first bell rang for dinner. Dora went to the 
same seat she had had in the morning, and was 
told by Cynthia to take the next one. “We 
don’t have one steady place, you see,” she said. 
“We’re all fixed the way we’re to be by each 
other, and then we have to move round one place 
every day. That’s so that we can all sit next to 
Miss Jones every little while, so’t she can see how 
we behave. The big girls have to change, too.” 

“I don’t believe I could eat a bit with Miss 
Jones looking at me,” said Dora. 

“ She doesn’t look at you unless you do some- 
thing awful, and she talks real nice sometimes.” 

Dora meditated as to what “something awful” 
might be, and privately resolved, when her turn 
came, to copy the deportment of Miss Woodland, 


WHAT A FLY DID. 


S3 


who was opposite her, and who crooked her little 
finger in the most genteel manner, as she held her 
tumbler, or bread and butter. In the mean time 
she practiced a little, too, finding it rather awk- 
ward, till, forgetting the eyes about her, she at 
last planted her elbow on the table, and with fin- 
ger crooked to the utmost, held her tumbler and 
looked abstractedly over it, as her example had 
done. 

‘‘Badly cramped, is it? Better let me rub it 
for you,” said Miss Jones, in a sympathetic voice, 
and Dora started so that the tumbler fell from 
her hand. Luckily there was but little water in 
it ; but Miss Woodland, who had seen it all, and 
who supposed fun was being made of her, looked 
indignant, and all the girls were laughing. Dora’s 
cheeks burned, and she could have cried, but she 
tried hard to finish her dinner as if nothing had 
happened. 

“Never mind,” said Ida, when they had left 
the table; “Miss Jones makes fun of everything, 
but I think it looks real nice. It shows your 
rings so, only you didn’t have yours on that 
hand. Did you think you had? It's a real pret- 
ty ring, anyway. Aren't you glad we haven't 


54 


SIX SINNERS. 


been here long enough to have any holes in our 
stockings? Every Saturday we have to mend 
from half-past ten to twelve. Can you darn ? 

should think I could/* said Dora, remem- 
bering her practice. I got five dollars for learn- 
ing how — all in five-cent pieces, too. I’ve got 
’em in my trunk. I’m going to buy Christmas 
presents with ’em, may be. Oh, what a splendid 
barn ! I never saw such a big one.” 

‘‘No, nor anybody else,” said Cynthia, running 

\ 

up, followed by the crowd. “That room off the 
side is for us to play in rainy days. There’s two 
tilts, an’ two swings, and those ladders on the 
sides are for us to climb. She says the more we 
climb the better she shall like it.” 

“And there’s holes in the hay-loft,” said Dolly 
Baldwin. “And sometimes you fall through, 
and think it’ll kill you,^but it don’t, because 
there’s always plenty of hay to fall on. Sippy 
fell right down into the cow’s manger last term. 
There wasn’t but one cow there, because she was 
sick, and she jumped away back and mooed. 
Sippy sat up straight and screamed, and old 
Brownie just walked up to her and licked her 
head before we could pull her out — licked her 


WHAT A FLY DID. 


55 


hair all over to one side, you know. You ought 
to have seen Sippy. Now let’s come and get 
some apples.” 

But the kittens,” said Dora. ‘‘I haven’t seen 
the kittens.” 

‘‘Oh, yes. Well, you’ll have to climb up. 
They’re under the eaves. There’s three sets. 
Brimstone’s are right in here.” 

Cynthia made a dive into a dark hole, and 
came out in a minute, holding two little yellow 
and white kittens, which were at once taken pos- 
session of by a pale yellow cat and returned to 
their proper place. 

“That’s the way Brimstone always acts,” said 
Cynthia. “So does Omlet. Omlet’s got four, 
and Mehitable’s got four. Hit’s gray, and’s the 
prettiest, but Miss Jones likes Brimstone. She 
says when she was little she had thirteen cats, 
and a blue ribbon round all their necks, and they 
went everywhere she did. Now come to the 
brook.” 

Dora followed, eager to learn all the ins and 
outs of her new home. A path wound through 
the orchard and beyond the little bridge which 
they crossed. Dora stopped a moment to lean 


56 


SIX SINNERS. 


over the rail, and look down to the swift-flowing 
water. Can we ever go in it ? she asked. 

See that ? asked Cynthia, pointing farther 
down to a sort of tent. ‘‘ That’s a bathing house. 
It’s the old hay cart that got run away with and 
smashed. So Miss Jones had it sort of set up, 
like a corn crib, and a cover made for it, and we 
use it all summer to dress in. We can go into 
the brook every day, and she’s had it dug out 
and fixed with gravel at the bottom so’t it’s splen- 
did. There was a leech in there last summer, 
and one day he took right hold on my leg. 1 
danced, and did every way to shake him off. 
Couldn’t bear to touch him, you know, and Miss 
Jones heard me screaming, and came and pulled 
him off She said she wished about forty had 
taken hold, and I’d had to dance ’em all off*. 
She guessed that would take me down sooner’n 
anything. We can’t go in any more till next 
year. See Ida prink. That’s ’cause she sees Ned 
Seymour over there. She thinks there’s nothing 
like a boy. I don’t. They don’t do anything 
but plague you, and gobble down all the best 
things.” 

As Cynthia talked they had ‘walked on by the 


WHAT A FLY DID. 


57 


bathing house, and then back again to a fence 
which separated Miss Jones’s land from the next 
place. Ida and Clem, with two or three other 
little girls, stood here on one side, while from the 
other Ned Seymour tossed red-cheeked apples, 
no sweeter than those they were privileged to 
pick, but gaining a flavor in their passage through 
Ned’s hands, unknown to their brethren. 

‘‘ Hallo, Fatty ! ” he said, shying an apple at 
her and looking at Dora ; you’re pining away, 
Fatty. You’ll come to an early grave if you 
don’t eat more. I heard Miss Jones tell mother 
she couldn’t sleep nights thinking how poorly you 
looked.” 

Cynthia sat down on the stile, and ate her 
apple composedly, paying no attention to Ned. 

^'Too far gone to speak,” continued Ned. 

Well, it’ll soon be tea time, and you’ll feel bet- 
ter when you’ve had a bite of something. There’s 
Frank Kinnicutt. We’re going squirrel shooting 
this afternoon.” 

‘‘ O, don’t ! ” said Dora, impulsively, forgetting 
she had never seen him before. How can you 
kill the pretty things ? ” 

'' It’s only on Fatty’s account,” said^ Ned 
3 ^ 


58 


SIX SINNERS. 


They’re good in pies, you know, and the doc- 
tor says her appetite must be tempted.” 

‘‘ Why don’t you say something ? ” said Dolly, 
wouldn’t let any one make such fun of me.” 

You don’t answer the wind when it blows, do 
you ? ” said Cynthia, calmly. No more do I 
trouble my head about Ned Seymour.” 

Don’t think of anything that can worry you,” 
said Ned, making a low bow as he walked away. 
‘'Perfect quiet’s the only thing that’ll bring you 
up.” 

" Perfect sarce is the only thing that takes you 
along now,” said Cynthia. " Pd like to know 
what you’re squealing about, Ida Thorn. Don’t 
you go to making a dunce of Dora, too. I say, 
Dora, they all think they can’t live without talk- 
ing about some boy all the time. There’s only 
three or four Miss Jones lets us have anything to 
do with, you know, ’cause there ain’t any more 
she can trust. Ned belongs to Ida, and Franky 
to Dolly, and all the rest of us have to hang on to 
Fred and Arthur Chase. It comes hard on them 
to have to treat three girls apiece.” 

"They don’t,” said Clem, indignantly. "We 
only put our money together when we go off. 


WHAT A FLY DID. 


59 


so’s to have more things. And Franky don’t 
like Dolly any better’n he does anybody else. 
Which one do you believe you’ll like the best, 
Dora ? ” 

None of ’em, I guess ; my affections are en- 
gaged,” said Dora, simply, thinking to herself 
that with such a friend as Mr. Osgood, and such 
a cousin as Jack, she should never care much for 
any boy. 

Such a shout went up from those little girls, 
led off by Miss Miller, who had come down to 
see what was going on among them, and who sat 
down on a stone and rocked back and forth. 

‘‘Engaged!’' she said. “Well, that is good. 
I must let Miss Jones know, so that you can be 
treated with proper consideration. Engaged 1 
Oh 1 ” 

Dora was boiling over, but too shy even then 
to speak what she felt, turned and rushed toward 
the house, and reaching the shelter of her room, 
locked the door, and threw herself on the bed. 
“I can’t stand it 1 ” she said, over and over again, 
as she cried. “ That hateful Miss Miller ! I knew 
I shouldn’t like her, and now she’ll tell every- 
body what she heard me say. What did I say it 


6o 


SIX SINNERS. 


for ? I didn’t know any of them. I wish I 
hadn’t come to school.” 

''Open'the door,” said a voice from outside, 
which she knew to be Miss Miller’s. 

She sha’n’t see me crying,” Dora said, sitting 
up and listening. 

'' Open the door this minute, or I shall tell 
Miss Jones,” said Miss Miller, rattling the latch, 
and exasperating Dora still farther. At home 
she locked herself in her room when she chose. 
Who was Miss Miller, that she should push into 
everything? Miss Jones had gone out, she 
knew, for the afternoon, and she sat perfectly 
quiet, while Miss Miller rattled, and pounded, and 
scolded, and finally went away. Then, too angry 
to cry any more, she went to her trunk, took out 
her writing desk, and from it a little book in 
which she had promised grandfather to write at 
least once a week all the little happenings of her 
every-day life. This certainly deserved some 
record. Dora took out her book, found a nicely 
sharpened pen, and wrote in her plainest hand : 

Sept. 1 8th, i8^g. — I hate Miss Miller, and 
I am going to remember to be as ugly to her as 
I can.” 


WHAT A FLY DID. 


6l 


That looked badly. Dora repented as she 
thought it over, but was not sorry enough to 
scratch it out. But she added, I don’t exactly 
mean that, but I don’t like her, but I’ll be good 
if I can.” The tea-bell rang before she felt quite 
ready to go down, and Ida came running up to 
get ready for inspection. She hugged Dora, and 
said, You must tell me all about it sometime; 
to-night, may be.” 

Dora shook her head, but went down to tea a 
little comforted, only wondering if Miss Miller 
had told Miss Jones. Nothing was said, and 
Dora felt some sense of victory, lost again in a 
great rain of homesick tears that wet her pillow 
long after she should have been asleep. 

Dora wished the next day anything but Sun- 
day — the thmk ” day as she had called it when 
a little younger. Lessons would have taken up 
her mind, and perhaps dulled the forlorn home- 
sickness that was taking possession of her. The 
Sunday-school lesson was a help, and then Sippy 
held a long conversation through the knot-hole, as 
to which dress she had better wear, ending with a 
snappish little gush of tears as she said. 

“ It’s too hateful to have all the clothes you 


62 


SIX , SINNERS. 


want, and then not to have any to wear after all. 
rd tell pa, but he says I’ve got to mind Miss 
Jones.” 

Clem burned off a lock of hair on a hot slate 
pencil, and was forced to give her mind to cover- 
ing the spot as well as she could, and Ida fretted 
at lessons, and church, and everything else, till 
Dora felt like screaming, and said, Do keep 
still ! ” 

At last everybody was ready. Miss Jones 
looked over the line, sending Sippy back to take 
off a pair of gay bracelets, and waiting till the 
young lady re-appeared in tears. Then they set 
out up the beautiful village street, the procession 
headed by old Mr. and Mrs. Jones, and Dora 
wondering if Dr. Stone could be one bit like Mr. 
Osgood. The first hour was a bewildering one. 
She had never been accustomed to the Episcopal 
service, and lost her place continually. The con- 
stant getting up and down she thought very 
bewildering, and was altogether confused when 
the sermon began. Then she looked around for 
the first time, wondering what the people were 
like, half smiling as she caught a look from Ned 
Seymour, who sat near, and flushing as Miss 


WHAT A FLY DID. 


63 


Miller, whose eyes were everywhere, shook her 
head severely. Dora looked away from her quick- 
ly, and toward an old man who sat in a side pew 
near the pulpit, leaning his head on a cane. His 
coat had a small cape, hardly reaching below the 
shoulder, and there were large brass buttons on 
the front and cuffs. But his face and head struck 
her more strangely than the coat, or deep white 
ruffles, rushing out from the waistcoat. He was 
older than anybody she had ever seen, if she 
could judge by the many wrinkles, and the snow- 
white fringe of hair, cut straight across his fore- 
head, as she had seen in pictures of the old puri- 
tans. This fringe was about his whole head, and 
how it could be, Dora puzzled, that the ends 
should be so white, and all the rest so red. 

For red it was, a pale, worn-out sort of red, 
lying close to his head, save just on the crown, 
where stood up straight one white stiff lock, like 
a plume. Dora had never heard of, or, at any 
rate, had forgotten, that such things as wigs were 
ever worn, and sat there looking steadfastly at 
the old man, and this one perpendicular lock. 
Why didn’t he cut it off or comb it down^ Who 
was he, and was there any chance that she should 


64 


SIX SINNERS. 


ever know him, and ask him to explain himself? 
What made his nose and chin so close together, 
and what big blue eyes he had ! No old look in 
them, certainly, but a steady, abstracted gaze at 
the minister, as if he had heard and known, long 
before, all that, and had gone far back into his 
own mind. But now a great blue-bottle fly, the 
last of the season, chilled by the cool September 
air, and which had been feebly crawling over the 
wall, was suddenly warmed and revived by a ray 
of sunshine, falling not only on him, but on the 
old man’s bent head, lighting up the pale red of 
the wig into some life and color. The fly spread 
his wings and flew to it; crawling all about the 
top at first, then at last slowly ascending the 
white lock till at the top it balanced, and slowly 
opened and shut its wings. Then Dora imagined 
it bent its head and composed itself in the same 
attitude of attention as the old man, till suddenly 
disturbed by an energetic miller, that, flying by, 
came in collision with the white lock, and upset 
the meditative fly, which fell and lay on its back, 
legs in air, striving to turn over. Long ago Dora 
had forgotten where she was, and now, as she 
saw the struggling fly, and the miller slowly cir- 


WHAT A FLY DID. 


65 


cling about, as if considering the situation, she 
laughed aloud, echoed by Ned, who exploded in 
his handkerchief, and sat down on the floor of the 
pew to recover himself 

What a frightened silence ! The minister stop- 
ped and looked down. The old man turm^d 
around, and everybody else moved and rustled 
in their seats. 

‘^Come here,” said Miss Jones, in a distinct 
whisper, from the front pew; and the unhappy 
Dora stumbled out, and in dead silence took her 
place next Miss Jones. Then, as Dr. Stone went 
on, she sat too overwhelmed to cry, and wonder- 
ing what judgment would come upon her. Miss 
Miller had smiled as she passed her, a satisfied 
sort of smile, as if she were saying, '‘There! I 
told you so 1 She’s the worst child I ever saw.” 
Dora felt again that she hated her. Sippy look- 
ed virtuous, and Ida frightened, and Dora sat and 
waited. 

Not a word from Miss Jones on the way home, 
till, as Dora would have turned towards her own 
room, she said, "No; come into mine.” And 
having reached it, set her down in a low chair, 
locked the door and left her. 


CHAPTER V. 


CAUGHT. 

I WON’T cry! I won’t cry!” Dora said to her- 
self, trying to keep back the hot tears that 
now seemed all the time ready to pour out. 

Nobody shall see me cry,” and she shut her 
teeth hard together and looked around. There 
was a table covered with books and papers and a 
tall, old-fashioned secretary, the upper part also 
filled with books. She stood up on a stool to 
look at the titles, but found them all in a lan- 
guage she could not understand. Then she went 
to the window which overlooked the orchard; 
but seeing some of the little girls there, drew in 
her head and went back to her chair. Then she 
took up a pamphlet lying on the table. Chambers’ 
Miscellany, and turned it over till she came to a 
story in which she was soon lost — so lost that she 
did not hear the door open, or know, till Miss 
Jones touched her, that any one had come in. 


CAUGHT. 


67 


^‘If she can study as hard as she reads/’ Miss 
Jones said to herself, ‘^she’ll be good for some- 
thing.” 

‘'Why did you laugh out loud in church?” 
she added, taking the book from her and laying 
it back on the table. 

“Because,” said Dora, after a moment’s hesita- 
tion. 

“ Because is no answer. Did any one make you 
laugh?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“One of the little girls?” 

“No, ma’am.” 

“Who then?” 

“I don’t want to tell.” 

“But you must tell. What do you suppose 
the minister thinks of you, laughing out in that 
way, and making somebody else laugh? Did you 
forget you were in church ? ” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

Miss Jones considered her. 

“ Now, Dora, I insist upon your telling me 
why you laughed. I may excuse you if I know. 
Unless I do know, you can have no dinner.” 

“ I don’t want any dinner,” said Dora, desper- 


68 


SIX SINNERS. 


ately hungry, but feeling she would rather go 
without ten dinners than face the girls now. 

“Don’t you know it disgraces the school for 
any one in it to do such a thing? Was it any- 
thing you saw ?’’ 

“It was a fly.” 

“A fly!” repeated Miss Jones, scornfully, and 
convinced that Dora could not be telling the 
truth. “ If you had told the truth, I should have 
taken you down to dinner, and to church this 
afternoon. Now I shall keep you here till I come 
back, and then see if you can answer me proper- 
ly. Why should you deceive me?” 

“I haven’t,” said Dora, on whose cheeks two 
red spots were beginning to burn, “it was a fly.” 

“There, there!” said Miss Jones, hastily, “not 
another word. Take off your bonnet and sit still 
here till I come back from church. Let the books 
alone, and think of your sinfulness.” 

“I won’t,” said Dora, passionately, as the door 
closed. “I’ll think of yours, and everybody’s. 

I can’t stay here. I’ll run away. I must tell 
grandmother I can’t stay here.” 

She sat still, choking down her tears, until the 
sound of voices in front, and the ringing of the 


CAUGHT. 


69 


church bell showed her all were on the way. She 
listened till there was no sound, and then tried the 
door. It was locked, and now she began to cry 
bitter, angry tears, till the resolution came to 
write. There was plenty of paper, pens, and ink, 
and Dora had been taught how to fold a letter 
properly, for it was before the days of envelopes. 
So she sat down and began her letter: 

''Dear Grandmother: I did mean to be 
good, but I can’t, because they won’t let me. I 
laughed in church at a fly, and I told Miss Jones 
I did, and she won’t believe me, and has locked 
me up. I hate Miss Miller, and I can’t have any 
dinner, and I wish you would come and take me 
away.” 

Dora wrote slowly, and a long time was spent 
in finishing this. Then she folded and directed 
it, and looked about for wafer or wax. Neither 
was there, and she took a pin and pinned the 
edges carefully together. 

"I’ll mail it the next time I go to walk,” she 
thought,* and then sat still, wondering how she 
could bear to live in this place till March. There 
was a rustling outside the door. Then the key 
turned softly, and Cynthia’s round face showed 


70 


SIX SINNERS. 


itself. Dora had tucked the letter into her bosom 
at the first sound, and sat now looking flushed 
and angry. She lighted up on seeing Cynthia. 

“How came you here ? Didn’t you have to go 
to church?” 

No; my head ached dreadful,” said Cynthia, 
who was really pale and forlorn. “But I couldn’t 
bear to think you hadn’t had any dinner. You 
don’t need any taking down, for you’re most as 
thin as a rail now. So I went to the closet and 
cut a chunk out of your cake. It’s yours, any- 
how, and you’ve a right to eat it.” 

“So I have,” said Dora, greatly comforted, and 
beginning upon it at once. 

“You’ve cried till you look real bunged up,” 
said Cynthia, pityingly. “Why wouldn’t you 
tell Miss Jones what you laughed at ? ” 

“I did,” said Dora. “It was a fly. Anybody 
would have laughed,” and she told Cynthia about 
the old man. 

“It was Uncle Sol,” said Cynthia. “ Uncle Sol 
Perkins. His wig — that red part’s his wig, you 
goosie — it is all worn out on top, and he won’t 
get a new one. There’s a hole that his own hair 
sticks right out of He always sits just so. He’s 


CAUGHT. 


71 


sort of deaf, ypu know, an' he fought in the Rev- 
olution, so he's got plenty to think about when 
he can't hear. He's seen Washington." 

‘‘Oh!" said Dora, delighted, “can we ever 
speak to him?" 

“Yes whenever we go to walk, if he'll let us. 
Sometimes he will, and sometimes he won't. He 
lives in that little house way on the back road, all 
alone, only a boy out of the poor-house. He 
won't ever let a woman go into his house to do a 
thing. He hates 'em all." 

“What for?" asked Dora, intensely interested. 

“ I don't know. Some of 'em ought to be 
hated. Anyway, he won't let any but little girls 
come in once in a while. Ned Seymour knows 
him, and goes to hear him tell stories. He’ll do 
it in the evenings, sometimes. Everything he’s 
got is just as tame; his old horse, and his cow, 
and all; and he says his dog knows a heap more’n 
the common run of people." 

Dora made an inward resolution to go there as 
soon as possible, and finished her cake with the 
greatest relish. Cynthia stole away, locking the 
door after her, and very soon the sound of the 
girls’ voices was heard, and Miss Jones came in. 


72 


SIX SINNERS. 


‘'Possibly the child didn’t lie,” she had said to 
herself in church time. “She looked truthful 
enough. In any case Pll let it go this time. If 
it’s in her it will come out soon enough.” 

So, as Dora looked up, prepared for more ques- 
tions, and determined to say nothing more than 
she had done. Miss Jones simply said: 

“You may go now, Dora, and try not to get 
me into trouble another Sunday.” 

That was a new view of the case. 

“Did I get you into trouble?” said Dora. “I 
only meant to get myself in. I mean I didn’t 
know anybody was in but me.” 

Miss Jones smiled. 

“We won’t talk about it any more,” she said, 
“but next Sunday listen to the sermon, and don’t 
look at anything that will make you forget your- 
self so.” 

“No ma’am,” said Dora, astonished at her own 
meekness, and going back to her room, where 
Ida and Clem sat on the bed studying the new 
hymn they were all to sing together after tea. 

“Only think of getting into a scrape the very 
first Sunday,” said Sippy, through the knot-hole, 
whereat Ida stuffed it up with paper, and said, 
“Don’t you mind her, Dora.” 


CAUGHT. 


73 


Dora felt happier, and that evening added a 
postscript to her letter: 

I feel better to-night. They didn’t make any 
more fuss, and I guess I shall be good. Give 
my love to Mr. Osgood and Jack. I had some 
of my cake, and my supper, so I am not hungry.” 

This letter, pin and all, she mailed privately, 
while walking the next day, and in due time Mr. 
Osgood took it from the much amazed clerk at 
the post-office, and carried it home to grand- 
mother. 

'‘Not an authorized edition, evidently,” he 
said, laughing. “Dora must be in trouble of some 
sort.” 

“We’ll all write to her, and tell her she must 
be careful,” said grandmother, anxiously, after 
the tear-blotted little scrawl had been made out. 

“No,” said grandfather, “I think I shall pay 
very little attention to it now, only write her a 
letter of news, and tell her how much we miss 
her. She broods over things too much already.” 

“That is the best way I am sure,” said Mr. 
Osgood. And so when Dora, a few days later, 
received two or three letters from home, she was 
surprised to find no mention of her trouble. 

4 


SIX SINNERS. 


74 . 


'' Don’t forget what the ring has to say to you,” 
wrote Mr. Osgood, and remember how eagerly 
we shall look for you when vacation time comes. 
And don’t forget the best Friend of all, who will 
help you over all the rough places.” 

Dora cried a little as she read this, written in 
such a large, clear hand, that every word was 
plain as print. But she was growing happier 
every day. Lessons came very easily to her, and 
her quick eager mind found study a pleasure, and 
Miss Jones’s explanations of everything delightful. 
Cynthia, who was her desk-mate, plodded through, 
an anxious pucker on her forehead, and gave the 
wildest answers, shifting about the facts of her 
lessons like a game in Consequences,” or the 
more modern Cross Purposes.” Miss Miller 
delighted in mixing her up, and Dora, indignant 
at what seemed to her meanness, often prompted 
and helped her out. There were other times 
when, seeing her hopelessly floundering, the spirit 
of mischief entered in and did as he willed. 

''What did General Stark say at the battle of 
Bennington ? ” asked Miss Miller, one day, in the 
history class. 

" He said — he said — he — ” began Cynthia. 


CAUGHT. 75 

‘‘E pluribus unum, don’t give up the ship,” 
whispered Dora. 

''He said, 'E pleurisy unum, don’t give up the 
ship,’ ” repeated Cynthia, with animation. 

"Next,” said Miss Miller, indignantly, and Cyn- 
thia’s round eyes turned with a surprised look 
upon Dora. Presently her turn came again. 

"What were General Stark’s principal battles.” 

"Waterloo and Flodden Field,” prompted 
from behind; and Cynthia, remembering Ben- 
nington, decided she would make a success this 
time, and answered briskly, 

"Waterloo, Bennington, and Flodden Field.” 

"Cynthia Bostwick,” said Miss Miller, laying 
down her book, "you never got such answers out 

of your own head. It’s insulting. Who prompt- 

* 

ed you?” 

"Weren’t they right?” asked Cynthia, not be- 
lieving Dora could have so imposed upon her. 

"Right!” said Miss Miller, shutting her book. 
"Stay after school and recite this lesson. I shall 
find out who puts you up to this sort of thing.” 

Dora, shaking behind her geography, hesitated 
whether to own up or not; but, remembering 
that Cynthia had to stay in at least every other 
day, kept still. 


76 


SIX SINNERS. 


*'0h, you’re mean as dirt,” said Cynthia, as 
she passed her at recess. wouldn’t cheat a 
cat>o.” 

‘'Well, you’ve no business to be prompted, any 
way,” said Dora. “You might learn your lessons 
better. What’s the reason you don’t?” 

“I can’t,” said Cynthia, desperately, sitting 
down on a log. “I ain’t fit for anything but to 
be an awful example. Miss Jones says my brains 
are made of hasty pudding. I do believe they 
are. And when Miss Jones puts out one of those 
awful messes in Colburn, and says, ‘Now Cyn- 
thia,’ I feel just as if I was being whirled right 
round and round. I wonder what’s the reason I 
can remember everything but lessons. You al- 
ways know yours.” 

“We might sit together in study hours,” said 
Dora, after a few moments’ repentance, “and I’d 
help you. I’ll hear you say theni, and may be 
you’ll get more of them into your head than you 
do now.” 

“Will you?” said Cynthia, delighted. “But 
what’ll Ida say?” 

“What about?” asked Ida, who came up just 
then. 


CAUGHT. 


77 


“Why, I want you to change places with Cyn- 
thia, and let her study at my desk. You’d just 
as soon sit by Clem, hadn’t you?” 

“Oh, very well,” said Ida, “I always thought 
you didn’t care anything about me, Dora May- 
nard, for all you pretended you did. I wish I 
could change rooms as easy as I can change 
seats,” and, drawing her dress carefully around 
her, so that no fold of it might chance to touch 
Dora, she put her arm around the gratified Sippy 
and sailed away. 

There were more reasons than the present for 
Ida’s change of feeling. In their last Saturday’s 
walk to Bantam River, Franky Kinnicutt and 
Ned Seymour had both deserted her for Dora, 
who, in the wildest of spirits, had told stories, 
and climbed trees, and skipped stones with such 
startling success that Ida had been devoured with 
jealousy all the way home. A treat of ginger 
cakes for the whole party, the result of two of 
Dora’s five-cent pieces, had not helped in the 
least. Ida ate her share, because at any time she 
would have eaten anything in the shape of good- 
ies from the hand of her bitterest enemy; but in 
her heart she vowed war against Dora, and only 
waited the best time for declaring it. 


78 


SIX SINNERS. 


won’t change if you don’t want me to,” 
Dora cried after her, the sole answer to which 
was the very worst face Ida could think of, imi- 
tated to the best of her ability by Sippy. 

Now began a series of small persecutions which 
nearly drove Dora beside herself. Ida would not 
speak to her in the room, but confined her con- 
versation to Sippy and Clem through the knot- 
hole. She threw Dora’s dresses on the closet 
floor, disarranged her drawers, altered all the lit- 
tle ornamental arrangements of the room, never 
allowed her a moment alone, and joggled the ta- 
ble until her journal was a series of blots. Cyn- 
thia, whom nothing troubled but lessons, went on 
her way serenely; but Dora, eager to be liked, 
and having grown really fond of Ida, mourned 
over the matter, and filled pages of her journal 
with apostrophes to betrayed friendship, and dec- 
larations that she was now ready for the silent 
tomb. But Miss Jones kept them all so busy 
that there was small time for much lamentation. 
Temptations had come often enough to begin 
some large story; in fact, one or two had been be- 
gun but the influence of the ring was still power- 
ful enough to prevent their completion. On the 


CAUGHT. 


79 


whole Dora was happy, and, though homesick at 
night, when she was shut up with Ida, managed 
to throw it off through the day. 

All this time she had never succeeded in speak- 
ing to Uncle Sol; or, rather, had never succeeded 
in making him speak to her. She had passed the 
little brown house in their afternoon walks, and 
sometimes met him going to the village; but he 
looked neither to right nor left. But Dora had 
' full faith that the mine of stories he represented 
would some day be opened. She had found that 
only a meadow lay between his ground and Miss 
Jones's orchard, and often crossed it to look at 
his bee-hives, which were in a half-circle under 
some locust trees. ‘^Only a meadow," I said, 
but it was really a pasture, rising at one side into 
rocky ledges, and everywhere deep in sweet fern 
and everlasting. Dora liked to jump into this 
sweet fern, and smell the warm spicy air which 
rose around her, and against one gray old rock 
where it grew thickest, she had piled it up, mak- 
ing a sort of arm-chair. Here she brought her 
stockings to mend when Miss Jones would allow 
it, though October was stealing all the warmth 
from the shortening days. But she read, or made 


8o 


SIX SINNERS. 


pictures of what she should do when a woman, 
or sometimes brought some favored little girl with 
her, and told her bits of all the strange things 
she had read. You will wonder that in a board- 
ing-school such liberty should be given; but Miss 
Jones, out of school and study hours, allowed 
them to do very much as they chose, so long as 
the employment was an innocent one. 

This afternoon Dora had piloted Cynthia 
through a maze of mental arithmetic, had fixed 
in her mind that Kamschatka was not in South 
America, and, rather tired with her exertions, 
took Evenings at Home,” from the school-room 
book shelves, and went out to her own place. 
The afternoon’s sun shone down warmly, and she 
settled down on the fern with the comfortable 
feeling that the worst of her week’s work was 
done. Sitting there, she could see Uncle Sol’s 
windows, which were all open. Evidently he was 
house-cleaning, for quilts and blankets were piled 
in them, and a feather bed had tumbled out and 
lay on the ground. 

'T’ve a great mind to go over there and just 
peep in,” said Dora, with whom to think was to 
act. In two minutes she had climbed the fence, 


CAUGHT. 


8l 


and was creeping up the garden, dreading lest he 
should come out and see her, and shrinking back 
at every sound. Guided by the splashing and 
pounding in front, she stood on tip-toe and looked 
in at one of the windows. Uncle Sol, with shirt 
sleeves rolled up, was scrubbing his parlor floor, 
bringing the brush down as if it had been a ham- 
mer. By the window stood a gun and sword, 
evidently taken down from some nails over the 
mantel-piece, where lay some curious shells and 
stones. Absorbed in his work, he heard nothing, 
and Dora, gaining courage, reached forward and 
touched the scabbard. It must have been badly 
balanced, for as she touched it, it fell, and Uncle 
Sol, turning in dismay, saw a shadow at his win- 
dow. 

‘‘Those tarnation boys,” he said, running out, 
scrubbing brush in hand. 

Dora had no time to escape to her own ground. 
Beside her was the open cellar way, and she 
dashed down the steps and into the darkest cor- 
ner behind some barrels. Uncle Sol looked 
around a moment. 

“There ain’t no signs of nobody,” he said, and 
shutting the two big cellar-doors, returned to his 
scrubbing. 


CHAPTER VL 


FROM DARK TO DAYLIGHT. 

F or a moment Dora was breathless. She 
heard Uncle Sol's heavy tread overhead, and 
expected the door at the head of the stairs would 
open, and search be made for the disturber. But 
as the scrubbing went on, she gained a little 
courage and looked about her. The cellar was 
not dark, for a window at the end, not yet bank- 
ed up with leaves, let in a pale light through its 
cobwebbed panes. She could see a row of bar- 
rels on one side ; cider barrels they must be, for 
Uncle Sol’s cider was famous. There were bins 
near her. Apples of all sorts, she knew by the 
smell, but she had small wish to investigate. She 
crept softly to the cellar steps, and tried the great 
doors, pushing with all her strength ; then find- 
ing them firm, sat down and tried to think what 
should be done. To walk boldly up stairs into 


FROM DARK TO DAYLIGHT. 83 

the kitchen, face Uncle Sol, and tell the whole 
story, was the practical thing, but the last thought 
that came to Dora, who climbed on a barrel hop- 
ing to reach the cellar window, but found it still 
too far above her. Then she returned to her 
first post, and sitting down on a box behind the 
barrels, waited, hoping that by and by, when the 
scrubbing was done. Uncle Sol would go out to 
milk, and leave an opening for her. So she sat 
quietly on the box, not daring to move about, 
lest he should hear her, and wondering what ex- 
cuse could be made to Miss Jones. It was al- 
most sunset, she knew, and very soon the first 
bell for tea would ring. What should she do ? 
They would think she had run away, and might 
lock her up on bread and water, as Sippy Smith 
had been the term before. Or suppose Uncle 
Sol staid in, and night came before she could get 
out. Dora looked over toward the end of the 
cellar where stood a long line of cobwebbed bar- 
rels, hardly to be seen now in the settling shad- 
ows. How soon it would be dark ! — ^nd there 
was certainly something moving over them. 

Ida said there was a ghost here,’' she thought, 
looking with great, frightened e3^es toward the 
Oh ! what shall I do ? ” 


corner. 


84 


SIX SINNERS. 


Dora was almost ready to scream, and as the 
rustling increased, grew pale with fear. A shad- 
ow moved on the wall; something, still behind 
the barrels, crept stealthily nearer her ; then she 
saw the gleam of something white, and with a 
great cry sprang up the cellar stairs, and beat 
upon the door with both hands ! 

Uncle Sol dropped his scrubbing-brush, and 
lifted himself up. '' Tain’t cats ! he said, slow- 
ly moving toward the kitchen, and standing still 
a moment in amazement, as the pounding con- 
tinued. Then he opened the door, just in season, 
for Dora, for the first time in her life, had fainted, 
and lay in a little heap on the landing at the head 
of the stairs, while the white cat stood over her 
mewing, as if repenting his share in the difficulty. 

‘'For the land’s sake!” said Uncle Sol. “A 
gal in my cellar! For the land’s sake!” And 
then lifting her up he carried her into a little bed- 
room opening from the kitchen, and laying her 
on the bed, stood looking at her. 

“She ain’t dead,” he said, presently, putting 
his hand on her heart, and feeling the beating. 
“She’s gone off and she’s got to be brung to. 
Burnt feather is what does it, Fve heard say.” 


FROM DARK TO DAYLIGHT. 


•85 


Looking about, he saw the turkey wing hanging 
by the kitchen chimney, and having put one end 
among the coals, returned in a moment, holding 
it and a dipper of cold water. Sprinkling her 
face with one hand, with the other he held the 
burning wing under her nose, while Dora, gasp- 
ing and barely conscious, turned from side to 
side to escape the' fearful smell, and at last sat up 
and looked about her. 

^'That’s right,'' said Uncle Sol, encouragingly, 
waving the wing before her. ‘^Now what do you 
want?" 

Dora, still half dazed, looked at him a moment ; 
then, beginning to realize the situation, tried to 
get off from the bed, saying faintly : 

‘U want to go home." 

‘‘Jest keep still," said Uncle Sol, severely, put- 
ting her back again with one turn of his great 
hand. “You ain't no ways fit yet awhile, let 
alone that I'm going to find out how you got in. 
Was you going to suck my cider? " 

Dora turned away indignantly. 

“ Squirming ain't no sign you wasn't. Gals is 
most as outrageous as boys, now-a-days. May 
be you wanted apples. You might better a come 


86 


SIX SINNERS. 


and asked for some, than tried to take ’em. 
Stealing ain’t no way.” 

“I didn’t want your cider, or your apples, 
either,” Dora found voice to say. “ I never 
thought of such a thing. I wanted to see your 
sword and gun.” 

“ They ain’t down cellar,” said the old man, 
suspiciously. 

“ You locked me down there. I ran in to get 
away from you.” 

“ For sure ! ” said Uncle Sol, on whom light 
was beginning to dawn. “Was that you that 
knocked ’em over? Well, well! Who be you, 
anyway ? Now there’s ’Liphalet come for the 
milk-pail. Don’t you get up now. Jest keep 
still till I come back.” 

Dora looked at his tall figure shuffling across 
the kitchen, and, half crying, wondered what she 
should do. Perhaps there would be time to run 
before he got back ; and with this hope she slid 
from the bed, and was part way to the door, 
when she stood still in dismay, for Ned Seymour’s 
whistle sounded on the threshold, and in a mo- 
ment he faced her. The whistle died out in a 
long “Whew!” and Ned, sending his hands to 


FROM DARK TO DAYLIGHT. 8/ 

the bottom of his pockets, stood and looked at 
her fixedly. 

I must get back to the house,’' began Dora, 
in tears. “ I know it’s after tea time, and I don’t 
know what they will say to me.” 

‘'Sit down,” said Uncle Sol, returning, “ Ned 
Seymour, you’d better go home. This little gal 
an’ me’s got to have some talk together.” 

“ You and Miss Jones’ll have to have some talk 
together, if you keep her,” said Ned. “It’s Dora 
Maynard from the school.” 

“Ha! ” said Uncle Sol. “That’s the little gal 
that laughed in meetin’. I heerd ye. An’ now 
you’ve run away. Well, well 1 Well, they’ve 
had their tea up there, so you’ll have to have 
something here.” 

Ned’s eyes opened. 

“That’s more’n he ever did for anybody before,” 
he whispered, as Uncle Sol disappeared in a big 
buttery. “Now, Dora, how did you get here?” 

“I’ll tell you some other time,” Dora began. 

“ She needn’t tell nothin’ till after she’s had a 
bite of something,” said Uncle Sol, appearing 
with a pan of doughnuts and a great piece of sage 
cheese. “Now which had you rather have, cider 
or metheglin?” 


88 


SIX SINNERS. 


‘"Metheglin,” said Dora, after a moment’s re- 
flection, remembering Ivanhoe, and how she had 
wanted to know when reading it what metheglin 
was. 

Uncle Sol nodded approvingly and disappeared 
again. Dora heard a jingling of glasses, and he 
came in in a moment with two long slender wine 
glasses and a tall pewter cup. 

Pewter wouldn’t do for you,” he said. ‘‘ Draw 
up, now, and I’ll fetch some cider.” 

In a few moments more Uncle Sol had brought 
in two pitchers, and standing before the table, 
took off his hat and asked a blessing in a loud 
voice, as if he were afraid of not being heard. 
Then he filled Dora’s glass with a dirty gray liquid, 
looking just like dish-water, she wrote to Jack, 
afterwards, and tasting like sweetened dish-water 
with a little pepper in it. Dora tasted, and tasted 
again, trying to like it, but losing respect at once 
for Ivanhoe’s taste. 

Don’t hanker arter it, eh?” said Uncle Sol, 
whose countenance had fallen a little. ‘‘Well, 
there’s cider, or the water pail. Take whatever 
ye like best.” 

“I’m sorry,” said Dora, making a final effort 
to swallow it. “ I thought I should like it.” 


FROM DARK TO DAYLIGHT. 89 

^^You beat all the old women in town on 
doughnuts/' said Ned, beginning on his second, 
while Dora, tasting hers, decided nothing could 
be better. Don’t you eat bread Uncle Sol ? ” 
Eat it with my beans; but doughnuts is best 
for a steady diet. Livin’ on rotten crackers an’ 
bread, going on three years, kind of sot me 
against it, so’t I don’t make it more’n once a week 
or so.” 

What did you have to do that for ? ” said 
Dora. 

‘^’Cause the Britishers wouldn’t give us any- 
thing better,” said Uncle Sol. ‘U was in the old 
‘sugar house,’ you see.” 

“ Oh ! won’t you tell about it ? ” Dora begged. 

“ Not this time. But you come down some 
Saturday afternoon, an’ I’ll tell you the whole. 
What made you screech out so when you was 
down cellar ? ” 

“ I got frightened,” said Dora, determined 
never to tell Ned what she thought she had seen. 
“ It was getting dark, and I wanted to get out.” 

“You skeered General Washington bad 
enough,” said Uncle Sol. “ He flew out as if he 
was sent, when I opened the door. See ! his tail’s 
big yet.” 


90 


SIX SINNERS. 


Dora looked around to see a great white cat 
sitting on the rug, and colored furiously as she 
thought what she had supposed it to be. 

Now you’d better go,” said Uncle Sol. ‘'Put 
some doughnuts in your pocket; for may be 
they’ll lock you up; and don’t you tell where 
you’ve been, for I can’t have everybody coming 
here.” 

“I must tell Miss Jones,” said Dora. 

“Well, that’s different. But don’t you be 
bringing a lot of strange children here. You can 
come, yourself, if you’ve a mind to.” 

“ Thank you, sir,” said Dora, gratefully, laying 
her hand in his for a moment. Then she went 
out into the porch, shrinking back a little, as she 
saw how dark it had grown. 

“ I’ll go to the door with you,” said Ned, “and 
then cut before Miss Jones sees me. There’s 
somebody coming down the path now. Let’s 
hide behind this bush.” 

Dora crouched down, without in the least think- 
ing why, and in a moment old Mr. Jones passed 
them hurriedly, and went on to Uncle Sol’s. 

“ Mr. Jones ! Mr. Jones ! ” Dora called, spring- 
ing from her hiding place, “ I’m here. Let me 
go with you.” 


FROM DARK TO DAYLIGHT. 


91 


Ned jumped over the fence and ran up toward 
his own home, and Dora stood still, waiting for 
for Mr. Jones, who came up hurriedly. 

My dear child ! how you have frightened us ! 
Where have you been ? Do you know half a 
dozen people are out looking for you ? 

I couldn’t help it,” Dora said, repentantly, 
and telling her story at once as they walked on. 
But as she came nearer the house, and saw lights 
moving from room to room, and a knot of people 
on the door-step, her courage failed, and she sat 
down on a stone. 

‘‘ I can’t go in. I’m not going in,” she said, 
vehemently; and Mr. Jones, too gentle to make 
her, after a few moments’ persuasion, walked in 
and left her there. 

In the mean time there had been weeping and 
wailing among the little girls, and some consterna- 
tion among the older ones. 

Where is Dora Maynard ? ” Miss Jones asked, 
as the little girls stood up before her for inspec- 
tion. 

She wasn’t in our room at all,” Ida began, 
eagerly glad to have something to tell. I guess 
she’s reading a novel up in the hay, and didn’t 
hear the bell.” 


92 


SIX SINNERS. 


'‘You know better/' returned Cynthia. "It’s 
so dark in the barn now you couldn’t see a thing.” 

" May be she’s tumbled through a hole,” said 
Sippy, remembering her own experience, "and 
can’t get out.” 

Miss Jones walked into the kitchen. 

" Hannah, I wish you would look around for 
Dora Maynard,” the girls heard her say, and 
then she came back and took her place. Five — 
ten minutes passed, and then Hannah came to the 
door. 

" She ain’t high nor low, nor anywheres, mum, 
in the house nor out of it.” 

Miss Jones turned a little pale and stood up, 
while Ellen Woodland screamed faintly, and Ida 
began to cry. 

" She’s run away, I know she has. She said 
she’d run away the last time I knocked down her 
sugar bird.” 

"Ida’s plagued her so I should think she would 
want to run away,” said Sippy. "She plagues 
her all the time.” 

"Finish your suppers, girls, and then go to the 
school-room,” said Miss Jones. "Hannah, go 
over and see if she is at the Seymour’s, and if she 
is not, ask Mr. Seymour to come in.” 


FROM DARK TO DAYLIGHT. 


93 


For an hour and more confusion reigned. The 
little girls cried, and even Miss Miller looked dis- 
turbed. Then old Mr. Jones was heard in the 
hall, saying something about Dora, and in another 
minute Miss Jones exclaimed, as she pulled her 
in : 

You naughty child! You are enough to try 
the patience of Job. Go right to bed, and I’ll see 
to you by and by.” 

She’ll whip her,” said Sippy. 

‘'No she won’t,” said Ida; “she never whips 
anybody. But I’d rather be whipped than hear 
the way she talks sometimes.” 

Dora thought so, too, when, after crawling into 
bed, she waited her coming. But, having de- 
termined to tell the whole story, even including 
the ghost, she did so at once, after Miss Jones’s 
first question, losing courage somewhat in the 
dead silence in which she was heard, but still go- 
ing on to the very end. 

“ So you promised to tell no one but me ? ” 
said Miss Jones, after shaking in a curious way a 
few moments. “ Well, you must fight that out 
with the little girls. You seem to have been as 
badly frightened as we were, so that matter is 
balanced.” 


94 


SIX SINNERS. 


“Then you won’t give me a tardy mark?” 
said Dora, who had been trying very hard to gain 
the prize for punctuality given at the end of the 
term. 

“ Not this time,” said Miss Jones. “ Now good- 
night, Dora. You’ll have to get up earlier to- 
morrow to make up for this lost study hour.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Dora said, delighted, feeling 
about, as soon as she had gone, for the two 
doughnuts Uncle Sol had given her, and eating 
them with the greatest appetite. 

Ida cried over her when she came to bed, but 
hardened her heart again as Dora declined to tell 
her where she had been. Miss Jones had simply 
said that she had strayed away and got lost, and 
Ida implored to know where- and how, till Dora 
did not know what to do. It was still harder 
next day to resist Cynthia, and Dolly, and all the 
rest who flocked about her, but finding her firm, 
they at last gave up questioning, though at inter- 
vals for weeks afterward, the conundrum came 
up. 

“Where do you suppose Dora Maynard was 
that night?” 

Dora, unable to relieve her mind to the little 


FROM DARK TO DAYLIGHT. 95 

girls, confided all to her journal, wherein, I regret 
to say, the cat was made to figure as ''a dreadful 
creature with great eyes, all in white, that flew at 
me,” and Uncle Sol was set down as having 
rushed at it with his sword, when it disappeared 
in a flash of blue light. She wanted to write the 
whole to Jack, but as she was allowed to send 
but one letter a week, decided when Jack’s turn 
came, that she had rather tell than write him, and 
so contented herself with describing her inter- 
view with Uncle Sol, and giving her opinion that 
honey might much better be eaten on bread than 
made into metheglin. 

Getting over to Uncle Sol’s again grew more 
and more difficult, for Cynthia was constant as a 
shadow, and Dora began to think she should 
never hear about the ‘'sugar house.” She saw 
him at church every Sunday, but he looked right 
over her head in coming out, as if he had never 
even heard of her, though now she always spoke 
to him. 

October slid into November, and Thanksgiving 
came nearer and nearer. The Governor’s proc- 
lamation had been read, and Dora, as she listened, 
thought with a sigh of grandfather’s, and the 


96 


SIX SINNERS. 


wonderful bakings, and roastings, and boilings 
which went on there. Cynthia groaned as she 
told how much mince-pie she could eat, and 
wished Miss Jones would give them a week’s va- 
cation, so that she could for once get filled up. 

‘‘I’m hungry the whole blessed time,” she said, 
one afternoon, as they were all sitting in the hay. 

“And there’s that last cake ma sent me, down 
in the closet, and I haven’t had a mite. It’s a 
shame.” 

“Look here,” said Dolly Baldwin, confiden- 
tially, “the door isn’t ever locked. Any of us 
could get it any nighit, and eat it up before morn- 
ing. ’Tisn’t a big cake. Or we could put what 
was left between the beds, and eat it any time. I 
say, who’d dare go down in the night and get it?” 

“I wouldn’t,” said Ida. “It’s horrid to be go- 
ing all round in the dark. I wouldn’t do it for 
all the cake that ever was made.” 

“ I would,” said Dora. “ I go everywhere in the 
dark at home, and never mind it a bit. Why, 
once I went right down cellar in the night and 
got something for grandma.” 

“Did you?” said Clem, doubtfully. “Well, 
will you get the cake?” 

“Why, yes,” said Dora, “only are you sure it 


FROM DARK TO DAYLIGHT. 97 

isn’t stealing? What’ll you say to Miss Jones 
when she finds it’s gone?” 

^‘Tell her rats got it,” said Ida. 

‘'Don’t tell her anything, and may be she’ll 
never think about it again,” said Clem. “She 
does forget things sometimes.” 

“But you must all promise not to tell,^’ said 
Cynthia. “Of course it isn’t stealing, Dora, to 
take your own things. Look' here! let’s be a se- 
cret society, just the way they do in colleges, you 
know. My brother’s in one. We’ll have it for 
just our own, and not let in anybody else.” 

“Oh, yes!” said Dora, rather envying Cynthia 
for her original suggestion. “What’ll we do 
though? I tell you what we’ll do. We’ll call 
ourselves the ‘Starvation Club,’ and we’ll get 
things out of that closet whenever we can, and 
have midnight meetings, you know, and eat ’em.” 

“Who’ll get ’em?” asked Clem. 

“Oh, Dora,” said Cynthia, “because she isn’t 
afraid of the dark, you know. She’d better be 
president, because presidents always do the hard- 
est things, and I’ll be vice-president, ’cause the 
most of the cake’s mine.” 

“I mustl3e something,” said Ida. 

5 


98 


SIX SINNERS. 


‘^And I too,” said Sippy. ^^And I!” ‘‘and I!” 
“and I!” came from all the other little girls. 

“You can’t all be officers,” said Dora, “because 
there’s got to be some members. I’d just as soon 
be a member. Somebody else can be president.” 

“Oh, no, because you’re the only that isn’t 
afraid;” said Ida. 

Dora, who sought to escape her honors, sat 
still, wishing she had not boasted. 

“Don’t you remember how Ellen Woodland 
was reciting to-day about their voting in Athens 
with white and black balls?” said Clem. “We 
can take beans. Let’s vote right away.” 

So, after a raid upon the beans, a meeting was 
held in the hay-loft, the kittens overseeing, result- 
ing in the election of everybody to something. 
For, when four officers had been fixed upon, the 
four members vowed they would secede and have 
nothing to do with it, unless they were at once 
given some rank. Two presidents, two vice-pres- 
idents, two treasurers, and two secretaries, at last 
organized, and, with unanimous quarreling, agreed 
to meet that night in Dora’s room. 

“Goodness!” said Cynthia, as they went in to 
tea; “I’m sure I wish we could have got the 
cake without the club. I don’t see any fun in it.” 


CHAPTER VIL 


THE PRESIDENT AND MISS BETSEY. 

B ED-TIME came, and Dora, mindful of her 
new duties as president, tried to keep awake 
till every sound should cease. But even when a 
peep into the hall showed that Miss Jones’s light 
was out, there were in all directions such myste- 
rious creakings and crackings that every reason 
for giving up came to her mind. On the whole 
it must be a sort of stealing, for all knew Miss 
Jones’s rules. 

^Hf Miss Jones ate the things herself, it would 
be different ; but she doesn’t. We all have some. 
I guess I won’t try to-night, anyway.” And, 
well pleased to be free from the undertaking, she 
fell asleep. 

Dark looks greeted her the next morning. Ida 
said she ‘^always knew she was afraid, for all she 
pretended not to be;” and Clem and Sippy of 
course seconded the remark. 


lOO 


SIX SINNERS. 


“I won’t Steal for anybody,” Dora answered, 
in so loud a tone that Miss Miller, who unex- 
pectedly came in sight, pricked up her ears and_ 
half stopped. 

“Now you’ve done it,” said Clem. 

“No I haven’t. She didn’t hear all I said. 
Anyway, I won’t do it, without thinking more 
about it.” 

“ And may be it’ll be on the table this very 
night,” said Cynthia, mournfully, “and we only 
get a crumb apiece. I don’t see why you can’t 
take it in the day-time, when there isn’t anybody 
in the dining-room. I’m a great mind to try 
myself” 

“Well,” said Dora much relieved, “ I wish you 
would. And I don’t care whether I have any or 
not.” 

“As if anybody would believe that!” Cynthia 
said, nodding wisely, as she went towards the 
school- room. 

It was a raw, miserable November morning, 
and, after breakfast, instead of walking, the girls 
were sent to the gymnasium and told to exercise 
till the school-bell rang. 

Dora presently tired of swings and climbings. 


THE PRESIDENT AND MISS BETSEY. lOI 


and, standing in the door, looked down toward 
the brook, marked now by a black line of alders, 
on which the frost still glistened. It was one of 
her blue days,, wherein she longed for home, and 
a talk with those who knew her best. How she 
wanted grandfather and mother, and how good it 
would seem to hear Mr. Osgood’s kind, quiet 
voice again, and tell him all her troubles. 

For Dora had a good many of which I have 
said nothing. To begin with, she had no real 
companion among the little girls ; for her mind 
was far more developed than theirs, and the les- 
sons over which they plodded, were learned by 
her in a third the time. Much as she wanted to 
be liked, her quick temper, and a keen tongue, 
which said often sharper things than she me.ant, 
brought her into many difficulties with everybody 
save Cynthia, who could not have borne malice 
against even a deadly enemy. Against Miss 
Miller she had the very strongest prejudice, and 
I am afraid justly. For that young lady never 
lost an opportunity of stirring her up; bewildered 
her in her lessons, and accused her of intentions 
she had never- dreamed of having, till Dora, at 
times half beside herself, gave the wildest reasons 


102 


SIX SINNERS. 


for her conduct, or answered so impertinently that 
all the class were shocked. 

There were minutes when she hated even Miss 
Jones, for the sudden way in which she roused 
her from dreamy fits deeper than Miss Wood- 
land’s. Mental arithmetic was Dora’s special 
abomination, and Miss Jones’s special delight. 
She looked upon it as the only cure for abstrac- 
tion and inattention, and kept all her romantic 
aud sentimental pupils in its very depths. Dora’s 
Colburn was strangely battered and bruised, and 
nobody would have wondered, could they have 
seen it fly against the wall, or watched the war 
dance executed upon it, when her feelings grew 
too much for her. And the worst of it was that 
however well the lesson might be learned, after 
sitting a few minutes in the class, laughing per- 
haps at Cynthia’s extraordinary statements, she 
was almost certain to go off in a reverie over 
some pleasant thought of the past, or hope for the 
future, till Miss Jones, exasperated, either marked 
her imperfect, and heard the lesson after school, 
or, what was much worse, laid down the book, 
folded her arms, and, rolling up her eyes, looked 
steadfastly at the ceiling till the dead silence 
brought Dora back to every-day life. 


THE PRESIDENT AND MISS BETSEY. I03 

So difficult to fix one’s finer thoughts on frac- 
tions,” she would murmur, as she took up the 
book again, while Dora, dyed with blushes, wish- 
ed either to sink through the floor, or annihilate 
Miss Jones on the spot. 

If she could have written home freely, I think 
matters would have been better with her; but 
only one letter a week could she send, and that, 
in the case of the little girls, must be read by 
Miss Jones, who corrected spelling, etc.^ — a hard 
rule, which, years after, she altered, but too late 
for Dora, whose journal was her only comfort. 
In it she wrote the fullest opinions on everything : 
school-mates, teachers, books, lessons, politics. 
There were her rhymes, and the outlines of sto- 
ries she wanted to write some day, and there 
were tender little thoughts, almost too sacred for 
words, but written because she had no friend 
dear enough to whom they could be told. She 
blessed the giver of the thick book with its 
smooth pages, filling steadily, but still slowly 
enough to make her sure there would be room 
for all she could say for at least another year. 
Generally she kept it in the bottom of her trunk, 
the key of which she always carried, so that no 


104 


SIX SINNERS. 


one could possibly get at it ; but this morning, 
standing in the open door, she remembered with 
a sudden start that she had only slipped it into 
her drawer when called unexpectedly, and that it 
was Miss Miller’s day for looking in all the draw- 
ers, and giving marks good or bad, according to 
the condition in which they were found. 

“She couldn’t be mean enough to read it,” 
Dora said to herself, adding at once, “but she 
could; she’s mean enough for anything, I know.” 

It was against the rules to leave the gymnasium 
till the bell rang, unless special permission was 
given ; but Dora was too anxious to think of this, 
or to care if she had thought, and ran at once to 
the house, and up the back stairs. Down the 
passage way she crept, softly as her thick boots 
would allow, and as softly turned the handle of 
her door. Nobody there, and pulling open the 
drawer, she looked at the corner where the jour- 
nal should have been, but saw nothing. 

“ May be I did put it back, after all,” she 
thought : and kneeling down by her trnnk, un- 
locked it, took out the tray and felt in the old 
corner. Still nothing.. 

Dora’s mouth shut hard as once more she 


THE PRESIDENT AND MISS BETSEY. I05 

closed the trunk and went into the hall. There 
was a murmur of voices from the big girl’s room, 
and she remembered that Maria Baldwin had 
stayed in bed that morning because of a heavy 
cold. She crept toward the room, the door of 
which stood ajar, and looked in. Maria sat up in 
bed eating her breakfast, and at the foot was 
Miss Miller, reading, with appropriate gestures, 
from a book which Dora knew at once. 

For a minute she was dumb with rage; and as 
she stood there. Miss Miller, turning over the 
leaves, said: 

Oh, here’s poetry ! Now for some more fun,” 
and declaimed in a loud voice : 

“ Oh! mother dear, if I only might, 

In the midst of sunshine sweet and bright 
Walk once again in my beautiful wood. 

And talk to my dearest Mr. Osgood, 

I know I should feel like a different child ; 

I know ’twould be easier far to be mild. 

But now how I hate that awful Miss Miller; 

I wish in a lake of black ink I could spill her. 

With a vulture or eagle to hold by her hair. 

And keep her from drowning, but keep her just there. 

‘'Well, Miller, you are catching it,” began 
Maria, but screamed and dropped her tea-cup, 

5# 


io6 


SIX SINNERS. 


as, with a sort of howl, Dora burst into the room 
and seized first the book and then Miss Miller’s 
long curls. Letting go these as the enemy’s 
hand came up and boxed her ears, she flew at it 
and fastened her teeth in it. Then, as the blood 
spurted out sickeningly, and Maria caught her, 
wrenched herself away and fled to her room. 

The school-bell rang before there was time to 
lock the door, and with white face and blazing 
eyes she went into the school-room and took her 
place. 

''Don’t she look awful ?” whispered Fatty. "I 
wonder if anybody’s dead?” 

Miss Jones in the mean time, having heard the 
two screams, had gone at once to inquire into 
the case, and hearing simply that Dora, whose 
drawers had been marked for untidiness, had 
flown at Miss Miller like a young wild-cat, re- 
turned to the school-room at once, but did not 
care that any school difficulties should be known 
to the visitor who sat upon the platform ; a vis- 
itor in whom all the girls, but especially the older 
ones, felt a very tender interest. 

How it is in these days I do not know ; but 
twenty years ago every well regulated school had 


THE PRESIDENT AND MISS BETSEY. lO/ 

more or less to do with the sewing circles and 
missionary societies of the church which they at- 
tended. Dr. Stone’s church was famous for edu- 
cating young men for the ministry; or, rather, 
producing the necessary money for such educa- 
tion, together with wardrobes, which, as far as 
possible, were made in the ^sewing society. The 
‘^church beneficiary,” the object of their favor 
was called by everybody. Benny Fishentary,” 
the little girls rendered it, with a vague idea it 
had something to do with his college name, 
though the young gentleman who sat before them 
now was plain Isaac Thompson, home for Thanks- 
giving. Not plain Isaac Thompson, either, for a 
year in the Theological Seminary had developed 
an extremely high white cravat and a tendency 
to part his hair in the middle. Dora, who had 
run into him in the hall a few days before, had 
dubbed him ^'Miss Betsey” on the spot, and per- 
sisted in calling him so, to the intense scandal of 
Miss Woodland, who had worked button holes 
enthusiastically in his last set of shirts made up 
in the society, and who thought the gold specta- 
cles, even, could never dim the saintly expression 
of his rather chalky and beardless face. Dora, as 


I 08 SIX SINNERS. 

her share of work, had knit a pair of stockings ; 
or, rather, finished a pair already begun for him, 
and in a spirit of contrariness had carefully ar- 
ranged a pin in each toe in such a manner that it 
would clearly manifest itself when the stockings 
were drawn on. 

Sitting there now, she remembered that Miss 
Miller was said to have a special interest in him, 
and was thankful as she thought of the pins, only 
wishing there had been a dozen. 

School opened in the usual way, save that Miss 
Betsey, and not Miss Jones, read prayers. Dora 
knelt down with the rest, but heard hardly a 
word. Then the morning’s work began, and 
presently the class in mental arithmetic was call- 
ed. She took her place at the very foot, where 
she had been sent yesterday for inattention, and 
at first listened, or tried to listen. But as Dolly 
blundered on, and then Cynthia’s turn came, and 
the customary insanity of her answers, she wan- 
dered away again, and sat steadfastly gazing at 
the point of Miss Betsey’s long thin nose, but 
with small thought of him in her sad little mind. 
Miss Betsey, easily embarrassed, blushed to his 
ears, looked uneasily around, and at last, some- 


THE PRESIDENT AND MISS BETSEY. IO9 

what indignant at the steady gaze, stared back 
again with a good deal of anger, quite lost on 
Dora. 

Her turn came at last. 

Add -f and -f- and f,” said Miss Jones. 

No sign of hearing from Dora. 

Y and f,'’ repeated Miss Jones. 

Still no answer. 

“Add together!'' said Miss Jones, bringing 
her hand down with a thump which made Dora 
start and see that all were looking at her, “ -f 
of contemptible make-believe, don't hear-ative- 
ness, and -f- of obstinacy, and -| of a young tiger, 
that might be a decent girl if she chose. What 
do they make?" 

Miss Jones had forgotten herself So had 
Dora, who looked at her with those same blazing 
eyes, and then at Miss Betsey, who sat watching 
her with a weak,, mean little smile on his face. 
The sneer was more than she could bear. 

“They make — I don’t care one straw what 
they make I " she said, furiously, rising up and 
throwing her Colburn from her straight at those 
maddening gold spectacles and the mean critical 
eyes behind them. Mr. Thompson dodged ; but 


I lO 


SIX SINNERS. 


there was no need, for the Colburn missed its aim, 
turned aside by the corner of Ellen Woodland’s 
desk, but taking her ink-stand instead; spattering 
door and wall and leaving a black page in an ex- 
ercise book. There was a moment of dreadful si- 
lence, broken only by a frightened giggle from 
Cynthia. Then Miss Jones spoke. 

‘‘You are a disgrace to the school. You have 
insulted our visitor as well as me, by such con- 
duct. Go down on your knees and beg pardon.” 

Not a word from Dora, but a look which gave 
small hint of obedience. 

“Obey me!” said Miss Jones, now as pale as 
Dora. 

“By no means,” said Miss Betsey, rising, “I 
could not think of it. She’s crazy. I must go — 
I really must,” and, despite Miss Jones s urgent 
request that he would stay, he made his way out. 
Then she took Dora’s arm, led her up garret to a 
small empty room, pushed her in, locked the door 
and left her. ‘ 

The hours went by. At first, raging in- 
wardly, Dora sat down in the only chair, and 
tried to think what she had done; but with the 
thinking grew desperate, and ran round and 


THE PRESIDENT AND MISS BETSEY. Ill 


round the room like a wild animal, moaning and 
crying aloud. But soon this ended, and she sat 
down again, cold and silent, and resting her head 
against the wall, wished ' she could die. What 
better thing was there to do ? Old Romans 
opened their own veins, and let life go from them 
quietly. Why should not she ? There was a 
penknife in her pocket, and she opened it and 
looked at the sharp, narrow blade, and pricked 
her hand hard, wondering how great would be 
the pain of a sudden stab. You wonder if she 
did not think how wicked this all was? Not a 
bit of it. Eager, passionate children, like Dora, 
and many another one, have such thoughts often 
when their sorrows come; and who ever reads 
now the life of Frederika Bremer, one of the 
sweetest, truest souls that ever lived, will find 
that just such states of , mind came to her not once 
alone, but many times. 

Dora, sitting there, thought no living being 
had ever been so wretched, and again gave her- 
self a harder prick in one of the blue veins of her 
wrist. This time a great drop of blood came, 
and then another, and seeing them she grew 
frightened lest perhaps she had succeeded, and 


112 


SIX SINNERS. 


wound her handkerchief about the cut. Some- 
body opened the door and threw in a thick shawl, 
but Dora would not pick it up. 

“ I won’t kill myself,” she thought, “ but 1 11 
take cold and have consumption, like Alice Rob- 
bins. I shall lie in a little white bed, with fruit 
and flowers always by me, and Miss Jones will 
come and ask me to forgive her. I shall do it 
then, of course, but in a dignified way, like this, 

< j^ise I forgive you and Dora closed her 

eyes, and waved her hand toward the imaginary 
Miss Jones. There was comfort in this — so 
much comfort that the worst misery was passing 
away. 

So with plans for a striking death-bed, the 
morning went by, and the dinner-bell rang. 
Hannah came up with a slice of bread and glass 
of water, and Dora, whose fury revived on seeing 
the look of horror with which she was examined, 
took up the tumbler and plate and threw them 
from the window. Starvation might be an easier 
death than any. Certainly she was not hungry 
now, and felt as if she never could be. But if 
starvation was the way, it might as well be done 
comfortably. - She picked up the shawl, rolled it 


THE PRESIDENT AND MISS BETSEY. II3 

around her and sat down again by the window. 
Then a new thought came. Suppose Miss Jones 
should insist on seeing the journal, the cause of so 
much trouble. She had put it hastily into her 
trunk when the school-bell rang, but there was 
no way of getting it now. Well, things must go 
as they would, and, slipping to the floor and lay- 
ing her head on the chair, Dora fell asleep, worn 
out with the war within her. 

It was evening when she woke again from a 
dream of hearing the old church-bell of Windsor 
ringing. But it was not church-bells. Only the 
tea-bell, and the sound of feet going down the 
stairs. It was dark in the room, with heavy 
shadows in the corners. Dora was thankful there 
was no furniture under which unknown terrors 
could creep or glide. She had always dreaded 
the dark, though grandfather and mother, as well 
as Mr. Osgood, had tried to overcome the fear in 
her. But they had never forced her to be alone 
in it, believing that time and common sense, as 
well as faith, would come to her aid, and do away 
with superstition. 

Dora looked watchfully about the room, shiver- 
ing now more with fear than cold, and wondering 


SIX SINNERS. 


II4 

if she was to be kept here all night. It seemed 
so, for the twilight grew deeper, till she could 
barely see the outline of the window. By and 
by there were noises underneath, in or near her 
room, she knew. The opening and shutting of . 
drawers, and moving of something heavy. Then 
another silence, broken soon by a scratching in 
the wall. Suppose it should be a rat ! A mouse 
was nothing to fear. She had fed and tamed 
mice at home, but a rat was awful. Dora pulled 
the shawl over her head, and sat there trembling. 
The scratching went on ; then there was a scamper 
across the floor, and over her feet, and she 
screamed aloud and beat on the wall. 

Silence for a minute. Then steps on the stairs; 
the door opened, and Miss Jones, with candle in 
her hand, entered the room. She was sterner 
than Dora had ever seen her before, and taking 
her by the hand led her down-stairs to a little 
room used sometimes as a spare room, and next 
the school-room. With some surprise Dora saw 
that her trunk stood there, and her books and 
little trifles were on the table near the bed. 

“Go to bed,” said Miss Jones, and Dora un- 
dressed hastily and crawled in. 


THE PRESIDENT AND MISS BETSEY. II5 

Miss Jones stood looking at her, the stern ex- 
pression giving place to one of real sorrow. 

‘^Passion, even as reckless passion as yours, I 
could have overlooked and forgiven,” she said, 
at last ; for, Dora, I did not know you were bad 
at heart.” 

Dora looked at her, wishing it were possible to 
blot out the morning’s work. 

^'How could you do it, child?” said Miss 
Jones again. *^How could you let yourself 
steal?” 

Steal ! ” and Dora started up in bed. How 
dare you say I steal ? ” 

^'There,” said Miss Jones, hardening again, 
ought to have known you would deny it. We 
will settle this in the morning,” and, locking the 
door behind her, she left Dora with the dark and 
her thoughts. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


DARK DAYS. 

D ora lay quiet, too stunned for a time to 
think. But as all this dreadful day came up 
before her, she cried again ; not aloud, but with 
long gasping sobs, hard to see or hear in any 
child. Cried far into the night, till tears seemed 
all gone, and her eyes and head burned and 
throbbed. Sleep came at last, feverish and 
broken, which lasted far into the morning, till 
Hannah came again with another slice of bread 
and glass of water. 

You’d better get up,” she said, ^‘you’ll be 
wanted pretty soon.” 

Dora got up and dressed herself slowly. The 
water felt very cold, and, looking out, she saw 
that snow was falling fast. She tasted her bread, 
but felt too miserable to eat, and sat down to 
wait for whatever might come. 


DARK DAYS. 11/ 

The door opened soon, and Maria Baldwin put 
her head in. 

‘'You’re to go in Miss Jones’s room,” she said, 
and went away at once. 

Dora went in, finding no one there, and sat 
down by the fire, glad of warmth, and drawing a 
little courage from it. She waited there what 
seemed to her an hour, though really but fifteen 
or twenty minutes. Then Miss Jones came in, 
followed by Miss Miller and Maria Baldwin, and 
all the little girls flocking after. If Miss Jones 
had come alone, Dora, sad and wretched as she 
was, might have talked the trouble all out ; but 
the pleased look which Miss Miller tried to dis- 
guise, and the scorn on the faces of all the little 
girls but Cynthia, stirred her up once more into 
one of her silent rages, and as she looked stead- 
fastly at Miss Miller, that young lady muttered, 
“ Oh, you little serpent,” and moved uneasily in 
her seat. 

“As this is a public offense,” Miss Jones be- 
gan, “ I have chosen to talk it over before those 
whom you have wronged the most. Your pas- 
sion when found fault with, and the harm you 
did Miss Miller, though bad enough, are small 


ii8 


SIX SINNERS. 


when compared with your other sin. A child 
who flies at people in that way should be muz- 
zled like a dangerous dog. Why a simple bad 
mark should enrage you so, I cannot see.” 

had taken a book of hers,” said Miss Miller, 
who thought a part of the truth might as well be 
told ; and who knew Maria must bear witness 
against her if Dora spoke. 

^^What book?” said Miss Jones. 

''A book she had been scribbling some very 
saucy things in,” said Miss Miller, hesitatingly. 

^'Get the book,” said Miss Jones, turning to 
Dora. 

You have no right to look at it,” said Dora, 
now very pale, but determined. thought no 
lady ever read anything not meant for her to see.” 

''Get it at once,” said Miss Jones, looking very 
angry. 

"It was her journal,” said Maria, who thought 
it time to interfere, "and nobody really had any 
business to touch it. I wouldn’t have listened to 
it if I had thought.” 

"Her journal! And you read her journal to 
some one else?” Miss Jones said, sternly, turning 
upon Miss Miller. "Where did you get it?” 


DARK DAYS. 


II9 

In her drawer, under some things.” 

I never imagined there was that degree of 
meanness in you,” Miss Jones said, slowly. 
‘‘You think because a child wrote it you were 
not bound to respect it. You are greatly mis- 
taken. And you let her be punished as severely 
as if she had had no provocation. You deserve 
all the pain you feel. Go to your room, if you 
please, and think it over. Mind, I do not justify 
you for acting like a mad dog,” she went on, 
looking at Dora. “ But you were abused. She 
owes you an apology, and you owe her one. Are 
you ready to make it ? ” 

“Yes, I am,” said Dora, whose heart so swell- 
ed with pleasure at the justice done her that she 
longed to throw her arms around Miss Jones. 
“ I was very angry when I bit you. Miss Miller, 
and I am sorry. I beg your pardon.” 

Miss Miller, as she walked from the room, gave 
a sort of grunt, which might mean anything; 
and Dora, with a heart lighter than an hour be- 
fore she could have imagined it possible to be, 
looked at Cynthia, who nodded congratulations 
as if she would nod her head off. 

“I wish this were all,” said Miss Jones. “But 


120 


SIX SINNERS. 


even after you have seen Mr. Thompson, and 
asked his pardon for the disgraceful conduct of 
yesterday, the worst remains still to be settled. 
Dora, when did you take Cynthia’s cake from the 
closet ? ” 

“I did not take it,” said Dora, trembling, but 
determined to speak quietly if she could. 

“ Don’t deny it,” said Miss Jones, earnestly. 
“ If you took it for the others, and then were 
tempted to eat it almost all, say so. Only tell 
the truth.” 

“I am telling the truth,” Dora said. “Who 
said I took it ? ” 

“ The cake was gone last night, when I went 
to cut it up for tea,” said Miss Jones. “ When I 
found neither Hannah nor any of the family had 
seen it, I questioned the little girls, and Ida told 
me that, looking under the bed that afternoon for 
something which had rolled away, she found a 
great many cake crumbs at the back side where 
you sleep. I went in to examine, and found the 
remains of it rolled up in one of your handker- 
chiefs between the beds. And, worse than that, 
Dora, the little pencil I have missed three or four 
weeks, was with it. What have you to say to 
this ? ” 


DARK DAYS. 


I2I 


''She said she’d get it in the night,” said Sippy, 
"because she wasn’t afraid of the dark, and we 
were all going to have some. And then she pre- 
tended she wouldn’t get it because it would be 
stealing. I heard her say she liked the pencil. 
Oh ! I know all about her.” 

"No you don’t then,” said Cynthia, jumping 
up. "Dora Maynard didn’t take that cake any 
more’n I did, or the pencil, either ; and you’re a 
mean, awful little sneak, Sippy Smith — that’s 
what you are ! Always listening, and lying, and 
snooping round. It’s my cake, and I say there 
shan’t be anything more said about it. Oh, dear! 
If anything could take me down I should think 
this would ! ” And Cynthia fell back and burst 
into a howl of grief, echoed by Ida and Dolly. 

"You may go,” said Miss Jones, hastily, while 
Dora, who felt as if she had no tears left, sat 
curiously quiet, looking at them all. 

Miss Jones leaned back in her chair. She al- 
most wished she had taken a different course. 
Yet the general feeling was that nobody but Dora 
could have taken the cake, and certainly no cir- 
cumstances could be stronger. There was even a 
little bit of cake in the pocket of the dress she 
6 


122 


SIX SINNERS. 


had worn the day before. Putting the pencil 
with it was a strange idea, when there were so 
many better places where it could have been hid- 
den. 

“She looks innocent enough,” said Miss Jones 
to herself, “and it would be dreadful if after all 
she should be accused falsely. But she is not, I 
am sure. Dora, if you would only tell me,” she 
went on. “ How much better to tell the truth, 
even if you have been wicked.” 

Dora was silent. 

“Well,” Miss Jones said, after a long pause, “I 
have no choice. I shall write to your friends and 
advise with them. In the mean time you need 
have nothing to do with the little girls. Learn 
your lessons, and exercise as usual, but without 
talking. And whenever you make up your mind 
to tell the truth, come to me, and I shall be glad 
to hear it. You may go now.” 

Dora went out, feeling more than seeing her 
way, and going into her new room, sat down. 
So that was the end ! Her friends written to that 
she had been stealing, and all her trying gone for 
nothing. Mr. Osgood would think she had for- 
gotten every good thing he had ever told her. 


DARK DAYS. 


123 


and as for her father — well, of course he would 
believe at once she had done that, or anything 
else that might be told him. There was no use 
in wanting to be good if this was what it ended 
in. 

The door opened softly, and Dora saw Cyn- 
thia’s tear-stained face looking in. 

^'Go away,” she said. 

“I sha’n’t go away,” said Cynthia. ‘T’ve got a 
cup of soup for you, and you’ve got to eat it. 
You have not eat a mite since yesterday morning, 
Hannah says. I can’t stay, you know, but I 
don’t believe you took anything. Drink it all up, 
every drop. Oh, you poor little thing!” 

Cynthia hurried away, and Dora sat quietly 
till noon came, and the dinner-bell rang. Then 
bathed her eyes, and, trying to look as if nothing 
had happened, went down. Old Mr. Jones look- 
ed at her sadly, and she felt as if every one 
avoided meeting her eyes. Miss Jones talked as 
usual to the rest, but said nothing to her until 
after dinner, when she took Dora’s hand and led 
her into the parlor. 

‘‘You showed right feeling in apologizing to 
Miss Miller, this morning,” she said, “ and I want 


124 


SIX SINNERS. 


you now to do the same to Mr. Thompson, who 
is coming in here soon. He has done you no 
harm, and you disgraced the whole school in 
what you did to him. Are you willing to say 
the right thing to him?'' 

''Yes, ma'am," said Dora, faintly, and Miss 
Jones, with a "Very well," walked away and left 
her sitting there. 

The door opened in a minute, and, looking up, 
Dora saw Mr. Thompson standing there, with an 
alarmed expression, as if he expected something 
to fly at him. 

"Miss Jones is not here," he said. "I — " 

"Mr. Thompson," Dora said, quickly, going 
toward him as he retreated, "I’m very sorry I 
threw anything at you. I didn’t mean to hurt 
you. I’m very sorry." 

"You ought to be,” said Mr. Thompson, still 
backing. "Sinful passions like yours ought to be 
punished. Some one should whip you. I should 
do it myself if I were your teacher, and — ” 

The rest was lost, for, backing continually, Mr. 
Thompson had reached the kitchen door, and, 
leaning against it, it opened inward, landing him, 
to Hannah’s surprise, on the kitchen floor, from 


DARK DAYS. 1 25 

whence he arose convinced Dora had had some- 
thing to do with his fall. 

She, in the mean time, escaped up the stairs, 
and went into the empty school-room. Saturday 
afternoon no one went there who could help it, 
and now she sat down by a window, and, taking 
her book, looked over her lessons for Monday. 
She ran to her room again when she heard the 
little girls coming, and waited there till tea-time. 
Prayers and lessons, and the Saturday night’s 
warm bath, gave her work till bed-time, and 
then alone in the little room she cried herself to 
sleep. 

So days went by. Cynthia spoke to her when- 
ever she could get a chance, and would have 
made many, but Dora kept by herself As her 
grandfather had said, she brooded over things, 
and now she was determined to say no word 
which should tell how much she suffered. 
Thanksgiving went by, and a few days later Miss 
Jones called her into her room just before school- 
time. 

‘T have a letter from your father,” she said. 
/‘You may read it if you can. It is short.” 

Dora opened it. There were only a few lines. 


126 


SIX SINNERS. 


''Dear Madam: Your course toward Dora 
has been just right. No punishment could be 
too severe. Forbid her writing at present to her 
grandparents, and allow her no favors of any sort. 
If not too great a tax upon you, I should wish 
her to spend her vacation with you. Stern deal- 
ing is the only way to meet her tendencies. 

" I am, very respectfully, yours, 

"H. H. Maynard.’’ 

Only from Dora’s eyes could any one have 
known the storm raging within. Miss Jones 
watched her as she read, wondering as she did 
now every day what should be done, but deter- 
mined that Dora should be brought to confession. 
Every night she asked, 

"Have you no word for me, Dora?” and 
every night the answer came, 

"No, ma’am,” till Miss Jones decided it was 
the worst case of obstinacy she had ever seen. 

Going home had been all to which Dora could 
look forward. With March her troubles would 
end, for she felt sure grandfather would never let 
her return to a place where such charges had 
been not only made but believed. But now her 
father had cut her off from any hope of justice or 
comfort. 


DARK DAYS. 


127 


He always did believe the very worst things 
he could/^ she said. I hate him; I always shall 
hate him. I know IVe told stories sometimes, 
but he thinks I do all the time. I’ll do it to him. 
What’s the use in trying to be good when he acts 
so?” 

Dora could not understand the wound her fa- 
ther’s pride, as well as honor, had received, or 
his eagerness by any means, sharp or otherwise, 
to cure her of the dreadful faults he believed 
were rooted in her. Like many another child, 
she thought fault-finding meant want of love, 
and felt injured whenever it came. But now it 
was more than injury, it was outrage, and she 
would not bear it any longer. Running away 
had come into her mind many times before, but 
had never seemed possible. Now she must get 
home if she walked all the way. Once at Wol- 
cottville, there were trains to be taken, if she only 
had money enough. Dora went down before 
her trunk, and pulled out the bag of five -cent 
pieces, not very much lightened, for but little 
spending was allowed. There were over four 
dollars still, as she found after long counting, and 
in her purse were two gold dollars, sent her for 


128 


SIX SINNERS. 


pocket pieces. This ought to be enough, she 
thought, and if it gave out she could walk, as 
David Copperfield had done. 

She looked so much more cheerful when she 
went into the school- room, that the little girls 
thought either she had confessed and been for- 
given, or the real thief had been discovered. 
Cynthia beamed as she saw the change, and from 
pure joy was so much more distracted than usual 
in her answers that Miss Miller finally ordered 
her back to her seat. But Miss Jones said noth- 
ing. Dora, too, was silent as usual, but with this 
new look, which certainly meant something. Miss 
Miller thought, ''she has made up her mind to 
tell,” and so did the older girls ; and Ellen Wood- 
land, full of sympathy, wrote on a bit of paper, 
"He that confesseth and forsaketh his sins, shall 
find mercy.” 

Dora smiled as she read it, and pushed it back 
to Miss Woodland. Then a sudden thought 
coming to her, took it again, and wrote under- 
neath, "And so He bringeth them unto the haven 
where they would be.” 

"What that has to do with it I can’t see,” Miss 
Woodland said to herself "She is a strange 
child.” 


DARK DAYS. 


129 


It was early in December, and the Starvation 
Club having been unable to carry out its original 
plans, had changed its name and become ^^The 
Santa Claus Relief Society,'’ the object being to 
make presents for Christmas, and thus relieve 
Santa Claus from the burden of providing every- 
thing. Dora had looked forward to doing so 
much with both money and hands, but this after- 
noon, as she saw the collection of bright silks and 
worsteds, went by without a pang, and busied 
herself with making up a bundle of whatever she 
thought would be needed on the road. She took 
everything from her drawers and put into her 
trunk, leaving only some little light things about, 
so that no one would suspect her. She meant to 
go that night — walk the eight miles to Wolcott- 
ville, which was reached, she knew, by the road 
passing the house, and take the train which left 
there early in the morning, so she had heard, 
when in two days more at most she should be at 
home. Then if her father came after her, or in- 
sisted on sending her back to school, she would 
run away again ; go into a factory ; work for 
somebody. Anything but go back to school. 

Do you think all this very unnatural, and feel 
6 # 


130 


SIX SINNERS. 


sure no girl of ten ever even thought long of run- 
ning away, much less did it ? I should agree 
with you if I had not known Dora all her life, 
and heard more than once the story of this mis- 
erable time, the memory of which will always be 
a very dark shadow in her picture of the past. 

Dora looked about that night with a curious 
feeling, upon the people and things grown so fa- 
miliar, and so soon to be left She caught Cyn- 
thia as they passed in the hall, and hugged her 
tight, but said not a word. Miss Jones noticed 
the strange expression of her face, but set it down 
as more of her queer ways. So nine o’clock 
came. Good-night was said ; lamps put out, 
and Dora, who went to bed with her clothes on, 
lay there waiting till everything should be still. 
It seemed to her half the night had gone, when, 
looking into the hall, she saw that Miss Jones’s 
light was out. The full moon made everything 
stand out clear and plain as she looked from the 
window a moment; and then putting on her 
warmest hood and shawl, stole down the hall, 
with shoes in hand. The back door had only a 
catch inside, and could be opened far easier than 
the front one ; and, with many pauses of terror at 


DARK DAYS. 


I3I 

creaking boards or sudden sounds, she reached 
the kitchen, put on her boots, which she would 
not stop to lace up, lifted the latch, and with one 
backward glance, she went out into the night. 

At any other time nothing could have tempted 
Dora to be out alone at this hour ; and even 
now, for a minute, her heart sunk and her knees 
shook. 

‘'It’s to get home! it’s to get home 1” she said. 
" I know God will take care of me. Oh, God 1 
do take care of me 1 ” And, saying this over and 
over, she hurried on. Nothing looked familiar in 
this shifting, uncertain moonlight, lost now and 
then under thick clouds, driving up from the 
north. She passed the road where they had 
gone nutting, with a dreadful fear that some wild 
animal might spring out upon her, and breathed 
freer as she came to open ground again. The 
thin crust of snow on the ground crunched under 
her feet, making her start and turn at times as she 
fancied some one behind her. The clouds thick- 
ened, and now she could barely see her way. 
Stray flakes of snow fell, and as the wind rose, 
came faster and faster against her face. Dora’s 
heart almost failed her; but turning back was 


132 


SIX SINNERS. 


worse than going on, and she walked steadily for- 
ward, with small idea of the weary miles that lay 
before her, and sure she was near the end of her 
journey. Up hill and down, growing more and 
more weary, and all the time the snow falling thick- 
er and faster, till Dora, numb with cold, and strain- 
ing her eyes to see through the driving storm, came 
suddenly against a fence. She got back to the 
road, but in another five minutes was out again ; 
and now, for the first time, real fear took hold of 
her. She could have screamed, but did not dare 
to, as she vainly tried to see where she was go- 
ing ; and, stumbling and falling, kept straight on. 
How long this lasted she could not tell. She re- 
membered afterward falling down some steep 
place, and calling loud as she crawled back, for 
her grandfather and mother, and then running 
wildly on till again thrown down by something. 
Then the sound of a horse’s hoofs on the frozen 
ground, and with the howling of the wind, one 
more cry as she ran again from the path, and 
seemed to feel herself falling down, down, into 
darkness, and cold, and silence. 


CHAPTER IX. 


WATCHING AND WAITING. 

U NCLE SOL had been to Watertown on busi- 
ness and, kept long beyond the proper time 
by an unpunctual friend, had sternly declined all 
invitations to stay all night, and driven away in- 
dignant. Whatever regret he may have felt as 
he cooled I do not know ; but the cooling came 
soon enough, for the storm began not half an hour 
after he had started. Old Gray trotted briskly as 
twenty years of hard work would let him, and 
Uncle Sol, drawing the capes of his ancient coat 
over his head, chirruped and sung to keep his 
spirits up. They were curious old songs, known 
to his boyhood, with now and then a hymn or 
psalm, till as he got nearer home he struck into 
this : 

“Why, soldiers, why 

Should we be melancholy, boys ? 


134 


SIX SINNERS. 


Why! soldiers, why? 

Whose business ’tis to die ! 

Whose business ’tis to die ! to die, ’ie, ’ie ! ” 

he shouted ; then stopped both song and horse 
suddenly. 

That was a queer sound. Like a human 
critter hollerin’. Wonder if old Simmons has 
tumbled down anywhere with his stone jug? 
Might better be froze an’ done with it, than go 
home to slam his wife and children round.” 

Uncle Sol drove slowly, trying to see through 
the darkness and driving storm, and listening 
carefully. 

“It must ’a been a catamount,” he said at last. 
“ I’ve heerd ’em cry like that, times enough when 
I was younger. You’d think they’d a sick baby 
shet up in ’em. Now, there ’tis again, just ahead. 
’Tain’t an animal, that’s certain.” 

Old Gray had stopped of his own accord, and, 
getting out from the sleigh, Uncle Sol tried to 
light the lantern he always carried under the seat. 
The wind blew out a dozen matches before he 
finally succeeded, and walked down the road, 
holding it first one side and then the other. A 
few rods on was a place where gravel had been 


WATCHING AND WAITING. 


135 


taken out, leaving a great hollow in the side of 
the hill, with a steep cut leading to it from the 
road, just wide enough for a cart. Down this 
steep place Dora had fallen, and Uncle Sol, hold- 
ing his lantern out, saw a dark bundle at the 
bottom. 

‘'Old Simmons, I declare! he said, going to- 
ward it. “Now how’ll I get him up? He’s an 
awful lift. Here, git up 1 ” he shouted, rolling 
over the object, and starting back with another 
shout of amazement, “ Lord save us ! it’s a gal 1 ” 

Uncle Sol lost no time. In another minute 
Dora was in the sleigh, wrapped in the buffalo 
robes, and old Gray snorted as he felt the whip 
coming down more sharply than he ever expected. 
The three miles between them and home were 
gone over in racing time, and Uncle Sol leaped 
from the sleigh as if he were but twenty, and 
and carried the child into his own bed. ’Liph- 
alet, nodding by the fire, opened his eyes at the 
confounding sight. 

“Jump round lively, now, an’ get the doctor 
here in no time,” said Uncle Sol. “This gal’s 
frozen, or dead, or somethin’ 1 Off with you 
now ! ” 


136 


SIX SINNERS. 


’Liphalet ran, and Uncle Sol pulled off the 
shawl and hood, and then sat down for a moment, 
too overcome to go on. 

''That little gal that got shet in my cellar! 
Lord have mercy upon us! Out in the night! 
Dead, may be ! If this ain’t the curiousest 
world! ” 

But as he finished exclaiming, he went on pull- 
ing off the soaked boots and stockings,, and rub- 
bing her half-frozen feet with spirits. 

"A bundle, too!” he said, as, lifting Dora 
higher on the pillows, he saw something clasped 
in her arms. "A reg’lar run away as ever was. 
Somethin’s gone wrong. There always was queer 
doings in that school. There, now, pooty! 
Don’t fret. Uncle Sol’ll take care o’ ye. Keep 
still, pooty.” 

Dora had sat up for a moment, looked about 
wildly, and then fallen back, moving her head 
uneasily from side to side. So she lay when an 
hour later the village doctor came in, with "I 
want to know ? ” written in every feature. ’Liph- 
alet had roused him by shouting that there had 
been a murder, and Uncle Sol had brought home 
the body, or else the body had tried to murder 


WATCHING AND WAITING. 


137 


Uncle Sol, and then been brought home. In 
any case there it was, and a woman, too. 

The doctor shook his head as, after examining 
her, he sat down by the fire. 

‘Ut’s a bad case,” he said. ‘‘She’s got fever, 
and it’s been coming on for some time. She’ll 
be very sick. You’d better send her to the poor- 
house, Uncle Sol, unless you happen to know 
who she is.” 

“The poor-house!” repeated Uncle Sol, with 
scorn. “That’s the way with you doctors; no 
more bowels of compassion than a grindstone. I 
know well enough who she is. Ain’t certain I’m 
going to tell. Anyway, I’ll wait awhile. She’d 
stay here, only I suppose some woman’d have to 
come to take care of her, and I won’t have their 
clickety-clack around. You just fix her the way 
she ought to be, an’ I’ll settle the rest.” 

“She can’t stay here, you know,” said the doc- 
tor, after he had settled her comfortably in bed. 
“Wherever she’s going, she must go by early 
morning or not at all. I’ll give her a soothing 
powder now, and be in here again by seven. 
Keep her hot and covered up, and if she comes 
to herself don’t frighten her off again,” and, much 
wondering, the doctor went out. 


138 


SIX SINNERS. 


Uncle Sol arranged himself for the night by- 
tying a red handkerchief around his head, and 
then sitting down by the fire in his high- backed 
arm-chair, looked toward the bed where Dora 
tossed uneasily, moaning and muttering, and 
springing up often with a frightened cry. Each 
time Uncle Sol laid her gently down, and went 
back to his place, nodding something, but straight- 
ening up at once to his work. As morning came 
on slowly, the moaning changed into cries for 
help; for grandfather Winthrop; for Jack; for 
Mr. Osgood; and, when at seven the old doctor 
came in, he shook his head again, and said: 

“It’s no use to think of moving her. She’s got 
to stay here, now, till it’s over.” 

“You don’t mean — ” began Uncle Sol. 

“I do mean it would kill her to be moved. 
Now, where are her friends?” 

“’Liphalet, go up and tell Miss Jones she’s to 
come to onct,” said Uncle Sol, with a gasp. 
“She’s one o’ the school gals. Dr. Brown. 
Best stay till she comes. You’re used to women 
folks’ tantrums. Well, well, well ! To think o’ 
my house turnin’ into a nest of sick babies ! ” 
And Uncle Sol retired into the back kitchen, and 


WATCHING AND WAITING. 


139 


leaving the door ajar, peeped through now and 
then, to see if his enemy had appeared. 

At half past five that morning, Hannah, punc- 
tual to the minute, opened the door at the foot 
of the back stairs and walked into her kitchen, 
starting back as she saw the open door, and the 
dr;ft of freshly fallen snow on the floor. Robbers 
were unknown in the quiet village, and though 
from habit she locked up at night, it did not oc- 
cur to her that the silver might be missing. 

‘'Now if it don’t beat!” she said, as she swept 
out the snow. “To think I should a’ forgotten 
to catch that hook. House’ll be colder than a 
barn, with that wind driving in through it all 
night.” 

At seven o’clock the last bell rang, and the 
girls flocked down to the dining-room, and took 
their places. 

“Dora has overslept again,” said Miss Jones. 
“Go up, Cynthia, and tell her she can have 
no breakfast unless she is here very quickly.” 

Cynthia went, but returned in a moment. 

“She isn’t there, ma’am.” 

“Then look for her. Very likely she is in the 
school-room getting warm.” 


140 


SIX SINNERS. 


you please, ma’am,'' said Hannah, appear- 
ing with an angry face in the door- way, Uncle 
Sol’s boy is in the kitchen, and says you must 
come out right away.” 

''A very improper message,” said Miss Jones, 
stiffly. ‘'He must wait till I have breakfasted.” 

“I told him that, ma’am, but he said it was 
murder, and you'd got to come.” 

“If the murder is done there is no use of hur- 
rying,” said Miss Jones, believing herself the vic- 
tim of a practical joke. 

“'Tain’t done,” said 'Liphalet, who had over- 
heard; and, indignant at the general disbelief, 
walked in to speak for himself, and turned all 
colors as he faced this battery of girls. “'Tain't 
done. Leastways it wasn’t when I come over. 
But it’s likely ter be soon. It’s one o' your own 
gals picked up in the night, off to Wolcottsville.” 

“What do you mean?” said Miss Jones. “Are 
you mad?” 

“No more’n you be,” returned 'Liphalet, dog- 
gedly. “Uncle Sol said as you was to come 
right away, and the doctor says she's killed.” 

Miss Jones sat down, feeling deathly faint for 
a moment, but composed herself, as she saw the 
frightened faces of the girls. 


WATCHING AND WAITING. 


141 


quiet,” she said to Cynthia, who had sat 
down on the floor, and was rocking back and 
forth. ‘‘Miss Miller you will open school this 
morning, and see that things go on as usual. 
Dora is in trouble, and I may not come back for 
some hours. Be quiet, girls; this boy probably 
doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I shall 
let you know about it as soon as I can.” 

Miss Jones threw on a shawl and hood, and 
ran down through the snow, over the same path 
Dora had taken a month before, while ’Liph- 
alet, swelling with importance, drank the cup of 
coffee Hannah gave him, and told all he knew, 
which was very little. 

“It’s the Maynard gal, anyhow,” he said. 
“The doctor put her to bed, an’ she’s jumpin’ 
round, and hollerin’ for all sorts of folks. I 
reckon Miss Jones’ll wish she’d kept her eyes 
open.” 

Miss Jones groaned as she waded through the 
deep snow. In all her experience with girls, she 
had never found so puzzling a case as Dora May- 
nard. She had tried heartily to do the very best 
thing, and now here was her school disgraced 
through no fault of hers; and yet every one 


142 


SIX SINNERS. 


would say there must be very little attention 
given, when a girl could wander off in such a way. 
Perplexed and miserable, she opened the door of 
the little house she had never entered before, and 
went forward to the bed, where stood Doctor 
Brown, holding Dora as she tried to spring up. 
Uncle Sol, prepared for ^'tantrums,’’ looked in 
cautiously, but as he saw her sit down quietly, 
gradually edged into the room, and stood looking 
at her. 

Most extraordinary thing I have ever known,’' 
said Dr. Brown. ''One of your scholars, it seems, 
Miss Jones, picked up at twelve o’clock last night, 
half frozen, and three miles from here on the 
Wolcottsville road. In brain fever to-day. • She’d 
have had that anyway, though,” he added, pity- 
ing the distress in Miss Jones’s face. "It must 
have been coming on some time.” 

"She must be moved at once,” said Miss Jones. 

" That’s impossible. She would die on the 
way. She’s got to stay here, and her friends 
must be sent for at once. The stage is going in 
half an hour, and you can send your telegraph 
by the driver.” 

" So long as it’s got to be, it’s got to be,” said 


WATCHING AND WAITING. 


143 


Uncle Sol, ‘‘so make yourself to hum, Miss 
Jones. If rd been set to choose my own crosses 
I wouldn't a picked out this one ; but it's come, 
and that's the end on't. An', doctor, see here. 
Keep a close tongue in your head. There ain't 
no use in gabblin' it all through the town. Shet 
your gals' mouths. Miss Jones, an' I’ll see to 
mine. 'Liphalet, I'll tan your hide if you go 
talkin' round among the neighbors." 

“That’s useless,” said Miss Jones. “In a 
village like this, of course every one will know in 
a day or two, at most. Better anticipate them, 
doctor, and say that the child wandered off when 
the fever was coming on, and was picked up and 
brought here, where she must stay till better. It's 
a dreadful piece of work, but there’s nothing to 
do but make the best of it. I shall stay here till 
some one comes. I wish you’d stop and ask 
Hannah to come down when she has got the 
dinner under way." 

Hannah came by and by, and sat there, while 
Miss Jones went up to the house, told the girls 
how the case stood, and arranged to be away till 
some one arrived as nurse. Old Mr. Jones took 
her classes, and Miss Miller promised the best 


144 


SIX SINNERS. 


possible attention to everything. That was a 
dreary three days. Dora grew no better ; but, as 
she tossed from side to side, said continually: 

“ You know I didn’t take it grandmother ! you 
know I didn’t take it ! ” 

“ If anybody else did it, and put it upon her, 
they deserve to be hung,” Miss Jones said to her- 
self, as she realized how it had worn upon poor 
Dora. “ And I can’t see any way of finding out.” 

“What does she say that for, all the time?” 
Uncle Sol asked, the second afternoon, as he sat 
by the window peeling apples. 

Miss Jones hesitated, then made a sudden de- 
termination, and told him all the doings of the 
past few weeks. 

“Things is agin her,” said Uncle Sol. “They 
look dark, that’s a fact. But she don’t seem that 
sort. I’d sooner think that snoopin’ critter of a 
teacher had had a hand in it. What do ye keep 
her for ? That little yaller- headed, slantin’-eyed 
thing among the little gals don’t look none too 
good. But it’s a bad job layin’ it to anybody, 
unless you know. This gal don’t take things 
easy. I don’t see what you’ll do. I’ll think 
about it a spell. School-keepin’ ain’t so easy, 


WATCHING AND WAITING. 1 45 

after all, is it? Not nigh so much so as I 
thought.’’ 

‘"Easy!” Miss Jones sighed, as she listened 
for the bells of the stage, now almost due, and 
thought of the miserable meeting with somebody 
who would look upon her as the cause of all this 
sickness and trouble. She heard the jingle at 
the foot of the hill. Dora heard it, too, and said 
something about getting ready very soon, sitting 
up as she spoke, and looking round. Miss Jones 
laid her back on the pillows, and turned to see in 
the door- way a sweet-faced old lady, who went at 
once to the bed, while an old gentleman helped 
lift in a trunk. 

No need of explanations,” he said, as Miss 
Jones came forward. saw the doctor below 
here, and he has told me everything. We shall 
take all responsibility, now, with thanks to you. 
You have done everything that could be done, 
and we appreciate it.” 

‘‘The most perfect old couple,” Miss Jones 
said, an hour later, as she lay down for the rest 
she had not taken for three days. “ I don’t 
wonder the poor child is always calling for them. 
They look good as angels. No boarding-school 
7 


146 


SIX SINNERS. 


in the land can take the place of such influence 
as comes from people like them, and her father 
was an idiot to separate them. I shall tell him 
so, too. People never can let well enough alone.’' 

Christmas came. A sad Christmas for Dora, 
who still lay unconscious of everything about her; 
her long hair cut close, and her flesh wasting away 
with fever. Mr. Maynard came up, bringing a 
box of fruit — golden oranges and lemons, bana- 
nas and cool tamarinds. He staid only a day, 
finding himself utterly useless in a sick-room, and 
then left, asking that telegrams should be sent at 
least once a day. Cynthia came down as often 
as she was allowed, bringing in her train one and 
another of the little girls, and always crying so 
that Mrs. Winthrop dreaded her visits. The old- 
er girls came, too, offering to watch at night, and 
so did many of the neighbors. Only one never 
suggested going down, and that was Sippy, who 
seemed to shrink from even hearing Dora’s name. 

‘H think Sippy’s going to be sick, too,” said 
Clem. ‘'She screams in the night, and frightens 
me most to death, and she don’t eat anything, 
hardly.” 

“She turns pale, too, when Miss Jones says 


WATCHING AND WAITING. 


147 


Dora isn’t any better,” said Ida. '‘And she said 
the other day she should give all her Christmas 
presents to her when she got well. She didn’t 
use to like her, either. But then everybody likes 
her now, even if she did steal.” 

"Don’t you say that!” broke out Cynthia, pas- 
sionately. "It’s more likely Sippy did it herself. 
You never’ll make me believe Dora did.” 

"Well, if she did,” said Maria Baldwin, sooth- 
ingly, "it was because the fever was coming on. 
We don’t any of us think she really meant to. 
Sippy Smith, how queer you look.” 

"Do I?” said Sippy, with a sickly sort of smile. 
"I was only thinking we’d never say anything 
more about it when she got well.” 

"Only to think of her going off in the dark, 
and that awful storm, too,” Clem went on. "Why, 
I wouldn’t dare have gone in the front yard.” 

"Yes you would, too,” said Cynthia, "if you 
hadn’t been spoken to for a month, and didn’t 
care whether you was dead or not. Oh! I tell 
you I’m awful glad I never did anything ugly to 
her.” 

Ida looked disturbed, and Sippy stole away 
and was not seen again till study hour. The 


148 


SIX SINNERS. 


prayer for the sick was read next day in church, 
and at evening Miss Jones came home in tears, 
and was locked in her room for some time. 

‘"Girls,” she said, when she came out, “the end 
has almost come. Dr. Brown does not think Dora 
can live through the night. Go to the school- 
room, all of you. I am going back, and will send 
up word how she is before bed-time.” 

“Let me go and just look at her,” pleaded Cyn- 
thia. “I won’t speak a word — only just look.” 

“No,” said Miss Jones, after a moment. “It 
is not best. You shall all know by nine o’clock.” 

* Cynthia sat down on the floor behind the stove 
in the school-room and cried bitterly, while the 
other girls, with hushed voices, talked a little of 
Dora, and at last sat silent, waiting for whatever 
word might come. 


CHAPTER X. 


THE TURNING POINT. 

N ine o’clock came, and as soon after a well- 
known shuffling and stamping were heard 
on the kitchen steps, Miss Miller ran down to see 
’Liphalet. 

She’s a sinkin’,” said he. ^^The doctor ain’t 
certain whether she’ll pull through the night or 
not. Likely not. Everybody here’s to go to bed. 
Miss Jones says.” 

Miss Miller went back slowly. 

‘‘No change, girls,” she said. “Now go to 
bed, and pray we may be forgiven for any hard 
thing we have ever said or done to the poor 
child.” 

Sippy ran to her room, and when, a few mo- 
ments later, Clem followed, she found her rolling 
on the bed in an agony of grief. 

“I can’t bear it another minute,” she almost 
screamed. “I can’t live if I don’t tell somebody.” 


SIX SINNERS. 


150 

^'Tell them what?” said Clem, beginning to 
suspect the truth. 

will tell,” said Sippy, sitting up and looking 
at the knot of little girls who now surrounded the 
door. 

‘‘Go to your rooms, children,” said old Mr. 
Jones’s voice from without. “What is the trouble 
here?” 

Sippy had thrown herself down among the pil- 
lows again, and, going in, he sat down by her. 

“Now, Sippy,” he said, “tell me your trouble. 
Why do you cry so?” 

“Because I — because I put the things under 
Dora’s bed. I put the cake in her pocket, and 
everything, and fixed it so’t everybody would think 
she had taken it.” 

“I knew it! I knew it all the time!” said Cyn- 
thia, rushing in and shaking Sippy furiously. 
“Oh! you wicked little thing! And now she’s 
dying, and won’t ever know. I want to kill 
you ! ” 

“Kill me then,” said Sippy, wretchedly. “I 
don’t care. I didn’t mean to make her sick.” 

“Go away, all of you,” said Mr. Jones, looking 
very much shocked; and' Cynthia, almost beside 


THE TURNING POINT. 


151 

herself with indignant pity, shook her fist as she 
went from the room. 

''Oh! if she was a boy, and I was a boy,” she 
said, "wouldn’t I lick her good! I’ve a great 
mind to do it, anyway. I’ll never come back to 
this school, unless Miss Jones sends her away.” 

"She feels dreadfully,” ventured Ida. 

Feels dreadfully! What’s that. Anybody 
can feel dreadfully. Why didn’t she feel like tell- 
ing the truth when it might have done some 
good ? not snivel it out when it can’t be told to 
the right one. If Dora dies, I hope she’ll haunt 
her all the days of her life.’' 

"There, there, Cynthia,” said Miss Miller, 
"there’s no use in feeling so. Sippy needn’t have 
told if she hadn’t chosen.” 

"Oh, it’s like you to talk that way!” said Cyn- 
thia, turning upon her. "You think I don’t know 
much. Miss Miller, and don’t care for anything 
but eating. I’d rather be a hog than act like you, 
or Sippy Smith either, driving the poor thing 
crazy between you. Oh, get out!” and Cynthia 
ran into her room and shut the door. 

Mr. Jones came out after a time, the shocked 
look still on his face, and walked down to Uncle 


IS2 


SIX SINNERS. 


Sol’s. No one had gone to bed, but sat there 
waiting for whatever might come. The doctor 
sat by the side of the bed, feeling Dora’s pulse 
now and then, and grandfather and mother were 
on the other. Mr. Maynard, who had come up 
the day before, sat near the window, looking 
steadily into the darkness, and Uncle Sol crept 
about, mending the fire, which sent up strange 
flickering shadows over the walls and low ceil- 
ings. Dora lay motionless and quiet in a sleep 
whose ending would be life or death. Mr. Jones 
beckoned to his daughter, who stole out softly, 
wondering why she was called. 

“It comes too late to do much good,” he said, 
“but if she dies, and is conscious at all before the 
end, you can tell her that we all know she did not 
commit the sin laid to her charge. Mississippi 
Smith has confessed that she is the guilty one.” 

Sippy would have trembled could she have 
seen Miss Jones’s darkening face. 

“Lock the little wretch up till I can attend to 
her,” said she. “Poor Dora! poor little Dora! 
What we have made her bear among us!” 

“You did what seemed best,” said her father, 
soothingly, “and need not reproach yourself 
Try and rest to-night.” 


THE TURNING POINT. 


153 


''1 can’t rest,” said Miss Jones, as she went 
back to her post, and sat watching for any change 
in the pale little face, only a shadow of its for- 
mer self — watched with as earnest a prayer as she 
had ever prayed, that the child might at least live 
to know their sorrow for the wrong she had suf- 
fered. 

The night wore slowly away, and at last a pale 
gray dawn came up in the east. Dora stirred un- 
easily, and Mrs. Winthrop bent over her, and 
watched the heavy lids which seemed unable to 
lift. Dora turned a little, then opened her eyes 
wide, with the first conscious look in them for a 
fortnight, and smiling feebly, but with full recog- 
nition, whispered grandmother !” and slept 
again. 

Dr. Brown drew a long breath. ^'She’ll do,” 
he said, softly, and went into the back room. 
‘Tm going home for a nap,” he said to Miss 
Jones, who followed him, ^'and do you go too, or 
I shall have you on my hands next. She’s passed 
the crisis, and with careful nursing will come out 
all right.” 

‘'Thank God,” said Miss Jones, with a burst of 
tears, which she checked in a moment and turned 


SIX SINNERS. 


IS4 

to Mrs. Winthrop, who came out more overcome 
with gladness than she had been by all the long 
watching. 

“Go home, my dear, and rest,” she said to 
Miss Jones. “You have more children than one 
to think of.” 

Miss Jones wanted to give her good news, but 
could not before Dr. Brown, and went away to 
sleep a long sleep of exhaustion. 

Grandmother, too, lay down for a littfe rest, 
while grandfather and Mr. Maynard still kept 
watch by the bed-side; and Uncle Sol, going out 
■* to the barn, danced, for the first time in forty 
years, a double shuffle on the threshing-floor. 

Of the talk with Sippy I shall not tell you; 
but Cynthia saw with delight the thunder-cloud 
on Miss Jones’s face as she entered the room, and 
chuckled as she heard the loud sobs which greet- 
ed her. But she relented at tea-time, when Sip- 
py, pale and trembling, was led in, and begged 
forgiveness of the whole school for her mean and 
wicked conduct. 

“No,” said Miss Jones, as she paused before 
her, “ I do not forgive you yet. It will take 
more than a little crying to make me do that. 


THE TURNING POINT. I 55 

Impulsive, thoughtless sins I always forgive ; but 
deliberate, mean, sneaking wickedness like yours 
I do not. I should expel you on the spot, but 
shall wait till Dora is well enough to say what 
shall be done with you. And whatever she says 
shall be done, if it is to tie you up and whip 
you.” 

Sippy jumped as Miss Jones brought her hand 
down on the table with an energy that made the 
cups da,nce. She would gladly have stayed in 
her room. Anything would have been better 
tlian to see the little girls look another way when 
she came near, and never speak unless obliged 
to. With equal dread she looked forward to the 
time when Dora should be told, and counted the 
days as they slowly wore away. 

For Dora’s convalescence was a long one, and 
it was nearly a month before she could sit up 
with comfort. As soon as possible her father had 
told her that everybody knew now that she had 
never stolen, and how sorry he was for her long 
punishment; but Dora had either forgotten, .or 
was too weak to feel much curiosity, or even ask 
who had done it. She could not understand 
why Uncle Sol should be there, but accepted the 
fact, and smiled on him whenever he came near. 


SIX SINNERS. 


156 

It was pure comfort to wake up from long 
sleeps, and see grandfather and mother, one or 
the other, always close at hand ; but everything 
else seemed a sort of dream, and why Uncle Sol, 
and Cynthia, and the rest should seem so famil- 
iar, she puzzled herself to find out. Memory 
came gradually, but it was not till one morning 
in February, sitting up in Uncle Sol’s rocking 
chair before the open fire, that she said suddenly: 

Grandma, where’s my journal?” 

‘Un my trunk, dear.” 

^^Did I give it to you ? ” 

''No, dear, I put it there for safe keeping. Do 
you want to look at it?” 

Dora was silent for a time, then spoke again. 

"Then it didn’t get lost out, when I fell down 
that night. Did you know I was out in the dark 
and the storm, grandma ? ” 

" I know all about it,” said Mrs. Winthrop, 
quietly, afraid that she would grow too much ex- 
cited. " It was a very bad dream, dear, but it’s 
all over now.” 

"And they know who took the cake and the 
pencil?” said Dora, after another silence. "Who 
was it ? ” 


THE TURNING POINT. 1 5/ 

One of the little girls, my dear. I have not 
seen her. Mississippi Smith is her name.’' 

‘'And she said wickeder things thap anybody 
about my stealing,”, said Dora, flushing hotly, 
“ril never forgive her as long as I live.” 

“Hity tity!” said Uncle Sol, coming in with a 
red apple, which he set down before the fire to 
roast for Dora. “Never’s a long day. I don’t ^ 
blame you for bein’ mad. That’s nat’ral and 
proper. But you mus’n’t keep mad. Forgive 
us our debts, you know, as we forgive our debtors. 
It’s a big debt that air yaller-headed torment 
owes you, but you’d better kind of pass it over.” 

“Ah! but Uncle Sol,” said Dora, “You never 
had such hard times as I’ve had. People doing 
you harm, when you hadn’t done anything to 
them.” 

“Haven’t I ?” said Uncle Sol, slowly. “Well, 
you know, I suppose. I kind o’ thought I had. 
Anyway, you’d better think awhile before you 
make up your mind. She don’t look none too 
happy.” 

“Cynthia,” said Dora, the next day, “I want 
Sippy to come here to-morrow. Do you believe 
she will ? ” 


158 


SIX SINNERS. 


''She’s got to, whenever you are ready,” said 
Cynthia. "You can have her expelled, if you’re 
a mind to. Miss Jones said so.” 

" Did she,” Dora answered, thoughtfully. 
" Well, after she’s gone back, I want all the girls 
to come down here together, and Miss Jones, too. 
You can tell her, if she doesn’t come here again 
to-night.” 

"Well,” said Cynthia, wondering, but asking 
no questions, and the next afternoon Sippy crept 
in looking "like a whipped yaller dog,” Uncle 
Sol said afterwards, and stood before Dora, who 
had arranged beforehand that nobody should be 
in the room with them. 

Mrs. Winthrop stayed close by, ready to come 
in if Dora grew too excited; but the talk, though 
long, was a very quiet one, and Sippy went away 
with a comforted look on her face. 

"The girls needn’t come, I guess,” Dora said, 
as she crept into bed again. "I don’t want to 
talk any more, only to tell Miss Jones that Sip- 
py’s going to begin again, and nobody must ever 
say a word to her about stealing. I know how 
it feels when you haven’t done anything, and it 
must be a great deal worse when you have. 


THE TURNING POINT. 


159 


You’ll tell her, grandma, every word, won’t you? 
and that she must be good to Sippy, and help 
her along.” 

Miss Jones thought over the matter, and that 
evening just before tea, while Sippy was in her 
room, told the girls Dora’s wishes, and added her 
own. 

‘^This is her last chance with us,” she said. 

She seems really repentant, and we will give 
her a fair trial. I shall treat you as if nothing 
had happened,” she added to Sippy at bed-time. 

But you are not to forget that you owe it to 
Dora, and that if you offend again, you leave at 
once.” 

During all this time, as Dora grew better, she 
had asked many questions of Uncle Sol, and 
heard the full history of the curious old things 
about the room, even down to the patch-work 
quilt upon the bed, which had in it two pieces 
from one of Mrs. Washington’s gowns. 

‘'That quilt don’t naterally belong to me,” 
Uncle Sol said. “It was part of Nabby’s setting 
out, and that ere piece o’ chintz come to her 
from one o’ father’s cousins from Virginny, that 
knew all about the Washington family. I keep 


l 60 SIX SINNERS. 

it rolled away, mostly, but now’s as good a time 
as any to have it out.” 

They were all sitting, as he spoke, around the 
fire. The early tea had been cleared away by 
Mrs. Winthrop, the one woman in the world 
really good for something. Uncle Sol said every 
day. And seeing his tender, gentle ways with 
Dora, Mrs. Winthrop wondered often how it was 
that no woman had ever shared his life. Practi- 
cally he needed none; for no woman could have 
exceeded his neatness in every way. Spotless 
cleanliness reigned in every corner, and his bread 
and doughnuts were light and puffy as heart 
could desire. Butter making, preserving, all were 
done by himself alone, ’Liphalet only having 
charge of the cattle. 

‘‘Who was Nabby?” Dora asked. 

“My sister, child. The onl}^ one I had. 
There were nine boys, and only this one gal. 
She was goin’ to be married, but died o’ small 
pox before the day come — died in the pest-house, 
and couldn’t even be buried from home. Mother 
kept her settin’ out a good while, and when she 
found I was settling down here, give it to me. 
Nabby an’ me was nearest.” 


THE TURNING POINT. l6l 

‘‘Why didn’t you marry somebody, and have 
her live here with you ? ” Dora asked. 

Grandmother Winthrop started, fearful that 
the question might offend him. But Uncle Sol, 
after one keen look at her, turned to the fire 
again. 

“I did calkilate to,” he said, “but things went 
contrary. I’d a knocked anybody down that 
asked me that question forty years ago; but I’ve 
mistrusted sometimes o’ late years that may be I 
might a done different. ’Tain’t no use to talk 
about it now.” 

“Yes it is,” said Dora, earnestly. “I want 
you to tell me. Uncle Sol.” 

“ Well,” said Uncle Sol, bending forward, with 
his elbows on his knees, and looking intently into 
the red coals, “she an’ Nabby were thick togeth- 
er as could be. Always in an’ out, in an’ out, 
an’ I, seein’ her every day, fell in love like a fool 
an’ gin her my word. I’d a good trade — carpen- 
ter and house builder, (my father was one before 
me) — an’ it came handy, for I could build a house, 
and furnish it, too. An’ the best friend I had 
was a parson. Knew everything that I didn’t, 
an’ was way above me, but took to me, somehow, 


SIX SINNERS. 


162 

an’ learned me all the little I knew. Him an’ 
Dolly was friends, too, and she’d talk to him 
about things she never did to me. Notions like 
that come into her head. Well, well! We was 
all young together. Then come the war. He 
wasn’t no great for liberty, being a parson ; but 
my folks was all brave fighters, an’ four of us 
boys went in to onct, an’ I reckon they’d have 
all gone if they’d lived; but you see three or 
four died when they was small, and Ephraim was 
far gone in consumption then. 

“Well, we went, and I says to parson Simmons, 
^Now, I leave Dolly with you, an’ whatever little 
things I’ve done for her, I want you to do when 
I’m gone. If I die, she’s to have the little I’ve 
laid up; an’ if I don’t, please God, I’ll cortie 
home an’ marry her.’ 

“Dolly acted like a Tory, out an’ out, but I 
thought it was because it hurt her so to have me 
go, an’ marched away heavy-hearted enough, 
but kind of hoping all the time to come back. I 
tell ye it was worse’n any wound I ever got, fur I 
was just tied to that little thing; but I couldn’t 
hold back when every man was wanted. If it 
had been stiddy fightin’ it might a’ done, but 


THE TURNING POINT. 1 63 

then at last they kept me prisoner going on three 
years, first in the prison ship, an’ then when I 
was taken again, in the old sugar house. I could 
kill every Britisher now, when I think of them 
three years. Not a word of home, an’ thinking 
they might all be dead. 

‘'Well, it ended, an’ I crawled home, eaten up 
with sores, an’ my head turned white, though I 
wasn’t thirty years old ; went home to find Sim- 
mons had cut me out, and Dolly married him 
afore I’d been gone a year. I’d a killed him if 
he’d been there; but he knew better. He’d gone 
off where he belonged, among the Tories in Nova 
Scotia, an’ that was the end o’ them. An’ of me, 
too. I kind o’ broke down then, more’n even 
the prison had made me, an’ looked to die any- 
way. Got so near dyin’ I could forgive Simmons 
easy. But when I began to pick up it all came 
back, an’ I says to myself, ‘Now, Sol, you’ve 
been taken in by one woman, don’t you ever give 
another the chance. If she’d lie, they all will, 
an’ don’t you never have anything to say to one 
of ’em but your own mother, that hain’t no ob- 
ject in deceivin’ you.’ An’ I haven’t. Fifty 
years an’ more I’ve lived here, by myself till late 


SIX SINNERS. 


164 

years, when IVe had a boy or two, and this little 
creetur’s the first petticoat I’d have been willin’ 
to let come and go as she was a mind. I’m free 
to say they ain’t all light-headed, an’ if I’d found 
one like you, ma’am, things might a’ b^en differ- 
ent. ’Twon’t last much longer, anyway.” 

‘'Is she alive?” said Dora, wiping away some 
tears. “I hope she had an awful time.” 

“She died forty year ago,” said Uncle Sol. 
“I’m seventy-nine. She’d a’ been seventy-seven 
if she’d lived. Well, I don’t bear malice now. 
Folks don’t when they’re as close to the grave as 
I be.” 

“Uncle Sol,” said Dora, after a long silence, 
“I’m going home as soon as I’m well enough, to 
stay till next term begins. I wish you’d come 
and see us, and see how nice it is.” 

“I wish you would,” said Mr. Winthrop, heart- 
ily. “We have lived with you a month and 
more. Now come and live with us.” 

“No; I’m obleeged to you,” said Uncle Sol, 
looking much gratified. “I ain’t fit to be any- 
wheres but here. But I shall remember you 
asked me. The first asking I’ve had since 1800 
came in.’’ 


THE TURNING POINT. 1 65 

Fifty years without being asked anywhere,” 
Dora murmured, as grandmother tucked her up 
in bed. That’s worse than not getting married.” 


CHAPTER XL 


BY THE FIRELIGHT. 

FEW days more, and Dora was strong 



n enough to be taken in the doctor’s sleigh 
back to Miss Jones’s, which she was soon to leave, 
not being well enough to think of, studying, for a 
long time to come. Uncle Sol protested that she 
might far better start from his house ; but Miss 
Jones was anxious that she should have a few 
days there, that she might take away pleasanter 
memories than might otherwise have stayed with 
her. So Dora sat in state in the school-room, or 
in the great arm-chair down-stairs, waited upon 
with such devotion by everybody, that Mrs. Win- 
throp said she would be spoiled. Five of the 
most promising kittens, grown now almost into 
cats, were brought in from the barn, and allowed 
to be wherever they could best entertain her. 
Unfortunately, accustomed merely to calls from 


BY THE FIRELIGHT. 


167 


the little girls, and not to a continuance of polite 
society, they refused entirely to stay in, and ran 
for the barn whenever a door was left open. 

Ned Seymour, whose calls at Uncle Sol’s had 
been constant, came now with his sister, fearing 
to face Miss Jones alone, and Franky Kinnicutt 
left each morning the largest red apple he could 
find. Cynthia, in the highest spirits, stumbled 
over her lessons with perfect equanimity, and 
only groaned at being kept in because it kept 
her from Dora ; and Sippy, quieter and humbler 
than anybody had ever seen her before, worked 
away, seeming determined to make the most of 
her ‘^chance.” 

Miss Jones allowed them now to linger in the 
dining-room after tea, for this room Dora liked 
best of all, because of the open fire, with its bright 
brass andirons and wire fender. It was delightful 
to sit down on the rug, with her head in grand- 
mother’s lap, and talk or listen to the little girls, 
who clustered about her. Even Mrs. Jones al- 
lowed them to set apples down to roast on the 
hearth, without a word as to its ‘‘mussing up 
everything so,” and as they watched them they 
told stories or made plans for the next term. 


i68 


SIX SINNERS. 


Only one day now, before Dora would leave, 
and once more they were all about the fire. Ned 
and Frank had come in, and though at first dis- 
posed to run from the crowd, settled down at last 
on the hearth, and listened to Mrs. Winthrop, 
who had been telling a fairy story, and went 
away now for a time, leaving the children to 
themselves. 

‘'Well, this isn’t a very stiff boarding-school,” 
said Ned, presently, putting some chestnuts down 
to roast. “You ought to hear Franky’s brother, 
George, talk about his. Why, you can’t wink 
without being marked for it. There’s one teach- 
er there, the one in composition and that kind of 
stuff, that’s always looking out for a chance to 
ferrule you. George says one. day last summer 
it was awful hot, and the flies buzzing so you 
couldn’t hear yourself think, and Mr. Bruce 
seemed as if he could not sit still, he felt so pep- 
pery. George had a spool of just the finest kind 
of silk in his pocket. I guess he bought it a- 
purpose. Anyway, he caught all the big flies 
that came along, and tied a long string of this 
silk to their legs, so’t they could only go just so 
far. Then they buzzed like fury, and Mr. Bruce 


BY THE FIRELIGHT. 


169 

flapped round with his handkerchief, and said 
such a noise was perfectly unbearable. But 
George got come up with, for one of 'em, with a 
longer thread than the rest, flew and lit on Mr. 
Bruce's forehead, and the silk lay just over his 
nose and tickled it. He was cute enough when 
he brushed off the fly to keep hold of the thread 
and went right down by it to George's desk. 
Wasn't he hopping, though ?" 

^‘George was the hoppingest," said Franky, 
‘‘for he took it on both hands." 

“Like that man in ‘Mother Goose'," said Dora, 
“‘When he whipped them he made them dance 
out of Ireland into France.'" 

“They couldn't," said Cynthia, literal, as usual. 
“There's a sea between." 

“That's the first bit of geography Fatty ever 
remembered," said Ned, after the shout had gone 
down. “You're coming on. Fatty. You'll get a 
diploma some day." 

“ I’ll tell you something," said Franky. “ George 
is in love, and I know all about it, too. I heard 
him talking to Jack Adams about it. Jack goes 
to the same school. He’s in an awful scrape, 
too." 


8 


SIX SINNERS. 


170 

''How?’' said all the little girls, interested at 
once. 

"Why, this girl went to dancing-school, and 
she’s the prettiest one there is anywhere about. 
Long curls, you know. George has got a piece 
of one, and little specks of feet, and George 
danced with her a lot, and thought everything of 
her. But after a while another fellow came — not 
a bit better looking than George, only he put lots 
o’ grease on his hair, and wore patent leather 
pumps — and this girl (I don’t know her name) 
danced with him right away, and wouldn’t hardly 
look at George. So George greased his hair like 
everything, and put a little on his handkerchief 
to make it smell first rate, you know. You 
needn’t say ' Oh ! ’ Dolly Baldwin. What’s the 
odds whether it’s grease or cologne, so long’s it 
smells the same? But you see he hadn’t any 
pumps but calf-skin ones, and mother wouldn’t 
send him the money for any, because she said his 
old ones were good enough. And every time he 
asked this girl to dance, she’d look down at his 
feet, an’ then say, 'No, I thank you. I’m en- 
gaged.’ 

"Well, he was down at the shoemaker’s one 


BY THE FIRELIGHT. 


171 

day, getting some strings, and this fellow came in 
with his pumps that had a little split in the side, 
an’ he wanted them done right away, because 
that night was dancing-school night. Old Tim 
said he’d hurry ; but when he was off for some- 
thing, George just put ’em in his pocket, and 
walked home, cool as a cucumber. Tim couldn’t 
find ’em anywhere, and vowed to the feller that 
he couldn’t have left them, and that made him so 
hopping he said Tim had stolen them. Then 
Tim knocked him down, and rolled him out into 
the snow. George didn’t care, ’cause he was a 
mean kind of a feller anyway, and he danced 
with the girl that night, and crowed it over the 
other fellow like everything; told her about his 
being knocked down, and all. But you see next 
day when he went back with the pumps, old Tim 
happened to see him slip them kind of sly into a 
roll of leather, and was mad as could be when he 
found out about it And the worst of it was, 
he’d lost one of ’em on the road, and couldn’t 
find it anywhere, and now he’s got to pay for a 
new pair. He got a licking from old Bruce, and 
now father says he’s got to earn the money.” 

‘‘Boys wouldn’t have half so hard a time if 


1/2 


SIX SINNERS. 


they were only a mind to behave,” said Cynthia. 
‘'They’re always breaking rules and doing things 
they’ve no business to, and then they scold and 
make a fuss.” 

“Well,” said Ned, “it’s a great deal easier for 
girls to be good than it is for boys.” 

“It isn’t! It isn’t!” was the indignant an- 
swer. 

“Oh! yes it is. Why, you take kind of nat- 
urally to being proper, and all that. You don’t 
see a boy prinking and whisking, the way Sip — , 
well the way lots of girls do when they come into 
church.” 

“Well, boys do such lots of mean things,” said 
Cynthia. “They steal like everything. Why, a 
boy thinks it’s all right to go and steal a poor 
woman’s apples, and a girl wouldn’t do such a 
thing for the world.” 

“Well, that’s just what I said,” went on the 
unabashed Ned. “All the boys do things. But 
I tell you one thing — they don’t tell half so many 
mean little lies as girls do. Girls lie all the time. 
I mean,” he added, in haste to silence the chorus 
of angry voices, “I mean little fibs, you know, 
about each other’s looks, and everything.” 


BY THE FIRELIGHT. 


173 


‘‘Well, I guess the badness is pretty well mixed 
up in both of 'em/’ said Cynthia. “But I’d just 
like to know why it’s stealing for me to go to 
Miss Jones’s closet and eat her preserves, and 
good fun, and a fine thing for you boys to march 
off to a melon patch and nearly kill yourselves.” 

“Well, I don’t know,” said Ned, reflectively, 
“only it’s sort of handed down from generation 
to generation, you know. I bet you a shilling, 
Dora, your grandfather stole apples or something, 
when he was a boy.” 

“He never did,” answered Dora, instantly. 
“He wasn’t that kind of a boy, at all.” 

“Yes, he was,” said Mr. Winthrop, who had 
come in unperceived, and was followed in a min- 
ute by grandmother. “At any rate, I came very 
near being. I remember very well some doings 
of mine in grandma’s melon patch.” 

“Oh! well,- then you had a right to them,” 
said Dora, cheering up. “Everything of hers is 
yours, too.” 

“No, I hadn’t,” said Mr. Winthrop, “and no it 
wasn’t; then. She was only Theodora Allen then, 
and not Theodora Winthrop for ever so many 
years after, and her father was the village doctor. 


174 


SIX SINNERS. 


I was studying then, with three or four other 
boys, at the minister’s, getting ready for college, 
and every one of us was dead in love with pretty 
Dora Allen. Not so much in love, though, but 
that we had an eye to her father’s melons, any 
number of which were growing in his garden. 
He kept no dog, and one or two pickets were 
broken out from the fence at the back, and as his 
land joined the minister’s, the two places being 
back to back, it was a very easy matter to slip 
through and find out how the melons were com- 
ing on. I felt a little mean once in a while, after 
I’d spent an evening and had a good time with 
Miss Dora, to sneak through the fence and try 
those melons; but I did it, for all that. 

“ Well, one dark evening in August, not late at 
all, we saw the doctor drive away, and decided 
now was the time. So Gray and I went through, 
picked half a dozen melons, and crawling back 
again, sat there on the wood pile and ate all we 
could hold, throwing the rinds into the pig-pen. 
They didn’t taste half as good as I expected. In 
fact, I wished I had had nothing to do with it; 
and after we had been in our rooms a while, when 
one of the boys proposed going after some root 


BY THE FIRELIGHT. 


175 

beer, I agreed at once. Wanted to drown thought, 
you see. So we started out, and went around the 
corner, our road taking us right by the doctor’s. 
There he stood, in the door, and called out : 

‘^‘Good evening, young gentlemen!’ 

‘‘‘Good evening,’ I said, feeling very shaky, 
and Gray nudged me and said ; 

“‘Do you suppose he can possibly know any- 
thing about it?’ 

“‘Good evening, young gentlemen,’ the doctor 
repeated, walking down the path. ‘Walk in, 
won’t you?’ 

“‘No, thank you,’ said I, as nobody else spoke, 
‘I don’t believe we had better, to-night’ 

“‘I really must insist upon it,’ said Dr. Allen, 
taking hold of my arm with a tight grip, which 
seemed to me to mean mischief ‘Walk right in. 
We have some remarkably fine melons, and I know 
boys are partial to them. Come right in and help 
yourselves.’ 

“He pulled me along as he spoke, and of course 
the other boys followed. As we went in at one 
door, the servant came in at another, carrying two 
splendid water-melons on a waiter, while Dora 
stood there with plates and knives. 


1/6 


SIX SINNERS. 


‘‘'Eat away!’ said the doctor, cheerfully. ‘I 
know there’s no end to what a boy can stow 
away, and you won’t find these bad eating,’ and 
he cut enormous slices, and passed to each of us. 
We were so full it seemed as if one more mouth- 
ful would choke us, and yet felt that we must 
eat, for how could we account for not doing so? 
Melons were a great luxury, and he knew it, and 
I put down my slice the best way I could, having 
another put on my plate the moment that was 
gone. 

“‘I really can’t, doctor,’ I said. ‘Melons don’t 
agree with me very well. I’m not quite well now,’ 
and I caught my cap and ran. How the rest got 
out, I don’t know; but I was sick all night, and 
so were they. 

“From the quizzical look in Miss Allen’s eyes, 
I knew she knew something about it, but I could 
not imagine how her father had found out. But 
the more I thought of it, the more ashamed I 
got, and at last I determined to go and tell him 
how I felt. It was about the worst job I ever did, 
but he met me more than half way. I jumped 
when he asked me where the difference between 
me and a thief came in, and if there was any; 


BY THE FIRELIGHT. 


177 


but it was a good lesson. I told it to my own 
boys, and now I tell it to you for the same rea- 
son.’' 

‘^But how did he find out?” said Ned. 

‘'He had only driven his horse a little way 
down the road, to an old barn he used while his 
new one was building, and came back at once. 
He heard a rustle in the garden, and went out to 
find that we were close to his fence, and eating 
his melons. Then he determined what to do, 
and would have come round for us if we had not 
passed. We supposed he’d think the carpenters 
had taken them. More trickery and cheating, 
you see. I often think the mean, dishonorable 
business men grow up from these melon and ap- 
ple-stealing boys, though a good many may do it 
thoughtlessly.” 

Ned looked as if his attention were wandering, 
and no wonder, for within the last five minutes 
one little girl after another had stolen out, and 
now both Ned and Frank rose up suddenly and 
rushed to the door, bursting into a wild laugh be- 
fore it had fairly closed. 

“I don’t think they’re very polite,” said Dora, 
rather insulted. “I don’t think anybody is. I 
8 * 


178 


SIX SINNERS. 


should like to know what they mean by laughing 
at you like that, grandpa? The last night I’m 
to be here, too.” 

As she spoke, the parlor door opened, and 
Miss Jones beckoned to them. Much bewildered, 
Dora went forward and sat down among the lit- 
tle girls, while a shawl hanging in some mysteri- 
ous way from the ceiling, was pulled aside, and 
showed a village choir; a leader with pitch-pipe; 
somebody with big bass viol, who looked like — 
no, it couldn’t be; yes, it certainly was — Uncle 
Sol! There were two young ladies in costumes 
such as Dora had seen in the attic at home ; 
enormous bonnets, with ribbon trees growing 
out of them, and dresses with waists up under 
their arms. But the wonder of all was. Uncle 
Sol, smiling at Dora, and drawing most unearthly 
wails and groans from his instrument. 

“I got him,” said Ned in an explosive whisper. 

He would not have come if he hadn’t been 
coaxed out of his wits.” 

‘'Do, me, sol,” piped the leader. “Now begin. 
Do, ra, me, fa, sol.” 

“Do, ra; do, ra; do, ra,” repeated the choir. 

“Go on; go on,” said the leader, exasperated. 


BY THE FIRELIGHT. 


179 


But ‘Mo, ra, do, ra, do, ra/' and nothing; else sang 
the choir. Uncle Sol stamped, and played the 
whole scale in a series of howls, but still the ob- 
stinate choir sang ‘Mo, ra,’^ and nothing more, 
and the curtain fell on the leader throwing his 
pitch-pipe at the tallest young lady’s bonnet, 
while Uncle Sol played furiously some unknown 
tune, his white top-knot wagging in time. 

“It’s a charade,” said Ned, for charades in 
those days were very uncommon things, and 
Dora might be forgiven for not understanding at 
once what the new play could be. “It’s a cha- 
rade that you’re to guess, and my mother fixed 
it.” 

The curtain went up again, or rather aside, and 
showed a pole decked with wreaths of paper 
flowers and evergreens, around which the same 
party danced, till interrupted by somebody who 
announced himself as from Maine. 

“From Maine I come, but a Henglishman I 
ham, and it does my ’art good to see the old 
country customs kept up. A ’ard country is 
Maine, an’ ’arder it would be if I couldn’t take a 
little comfort out of it.” 

By this time a whisper went about that the 


i8o 


SIX SINNERS. 


word was two, and could be nothing else than 
Dora Maynard; but Dora herself had no such 
suspicion, and was overwhelmed with confusion 
when Mr. Jones stepped forward, and leading her 
up in front presented her as '‘the whole word, 
ladies and gentleman.'' 

Everybody cheered and clapped,’ and Dora 
went back to her place with burning cheeks, but 
rather enjoying it on the whole. The grand feat- 
ure of the evening over, the girls begged for 
games, and played a half a dozen whose names 
you hardly know — pillows and keys, fox and 
geese, and lastly Copenhagen. Dora held the 
forfeits, as the quietest share she could have in 
the fun; and finally identifying a red silk hand- 
kerchief as Mr. Jones's, declared that he must tell 
a story to redeem it. Uncle Isaac blushed 
harder than Dora had done, and declared he 
knew none; but, finding the judge inexorable, 
sat down and began: 

"It’s a little story, and a very ridiculous one, 
too, but all I can think of, good people. You 
know, Mary,” he went on, turning to his daugh- 
ter, "that I began at one college and graduated 
at another; but I have never told you why I left 


BY THE FIRELIGHT. l8l 

the first. The fact is I was so wild there was no 
living with me anywhere, and got not only my- 
self but everybody else into continual scrapes.” 

The children looked at the mild, soft-voiced 
old gentleman, wondering if this could be true, 
and with a little smile he went on: 

‘^Half the energy spent on mischief would 
have taken me through with the highest honors. 
I wonder sometimes if college boys now do as 
many outrageous things as we did. Chapel was 
the worst infliction, going to morning prayers be- 
fore it was light, and we tried pretty much every- 
thing to get rid of it, even to climbing the belfry 
and muffling the bell, so that it took the ringer 
an hour to unroll the rags. Of course there was 
no chapel that day, but the president marked us 
all for absence, and not only that, but kept it up 
for a week, till we vowed to be revenged. His 
only amusement was driving about, and he had a 
really fine horse; gentle but fast, and answering 
to his name like a dog. He was kept beautifully 
groomed, too, and his coat looked like satin. 
Well, we had been outraged by old Prex, as we 
called him, long enough, and determined to be 
even with him. So one night, having made our 


1 82 


SIX SINNERS. 


plans beforehand, we went into the stable three or 
four of us, and painted that horse in stripes of red 
and green, giving his tail a final dip in the green. 
We couldn’t get the effect by dim moonlight, but 
just did it on general principles; and when we 
were through, sunk our paint pots in the creek, 
and went to bed. The howls and stamping in 
that stable next morning, when Pat went in ! He 
led the animal right out in front of the president’s 
house, and I guess it was the most extraordinary 
looking creature that ever walked through the 
streets of that town. The faculty smelled it out, 
though I never knew how, and three of us were 
expelled at once. We deserved it, too.” 

Uncle Isaac ended with much applause, and 
then Miss Jones, who saw Dora looked tired, 
turned to Mrs. Winthrop: 

‘‘Only one thing more,” she said, “and then 
Dora must go to bed. You are wanted this way, 
Dora,” and rising she led the way to the dining- 


room. 


CHAPTER XII. 


THE END. 

S UCH a sight as the opening of the dining- 
room door disclosed had seldom been seen 
at Miss Jones’s, where ‘^goodies,” as the little 
girls called them, were rather looked down upon. 

But to-night the usual rules had been departed 
from. Cynthia’s eyes were rounder than ever, 
as she pointed out a cake in the centre of the 
table and informed Dora that it was for her alone. 

‘‘Chock full o’ raisins and citron!” she said. 
“My mother made it, and I know. You’ve got 
to take it home with you, and eat it every mite 
yourself” 

“Then you must eat all my mottoes,” Dora 
said, recognizing some beauties sent up by her 
father. 

Miss Jones looked as if she wanted to say : 
“Now, children, don’t make yourselves sick,” 


SIX SINNERS. 


184 

but did not say it; and Cynthia was allowed to 
cut from another cake slices equally “ chock full ” 
of fruit, and distribute them among scholars and 
guests. Dora, easily tired, crept away to bed 
before the supper ended, and finding Uncle Sol 
in the kitchen, stopped to give him a final hug. 
Uncle Sol’s eyes were dim, and his voice a little 
broken, as he held her for a minute in his arms, 
and said: 

“ Now, pooty, you’re coming back again.” 

“To be sure I am,” said Dora; “and I know 
something. Uncle Sol, that nobody else does. 
Miss Miller isn’t coming back. I heard Miss 
Jones tell grandma so ; and she said she had tried 
her faithfully, and found she would never answer 
to be with children. What’ll I do without some- 
body to plague me ? ” 

“You’ll plague yourself fast enough,” said Un- 
cle Sol. “Let you alone for getting yourself into 
scrapes. Now, you go to bed an’ sleep like a 
pictur’ ! You needn’t say good-bye, coz I’m go- 
ing to drive you over to-morrow.” 

The parting next day was rather a sad affair. 
Cynthia, dissolved in tears, declared that “this 
would take her down, if anything could ” — though 


THE END. 


185 


as all the winter’s troubles had produced no effect 
in that way, it was doubtful if this would. Ned 
and Franky brought each a bag of nuts, and 
were disconcerted at Dora’s refusal of them. 

‘‘Why, I’m going where there’s nothing but 
nuts,” she said. “I mean, there’s more than 
Jack or I ever could eat, if we cracked all the 
time. And, Ned, I want you to write to me, 
and tell me about George, you know, and if he 
earns money enough to buy the pumps. You 
can write to Jack and tell him, if you don’t want 
to write to a girl.” 

“I guess I can stand it,” said Ned, rather en- 
vying a girl’s privileges, as Dora was passing 
around like smelling-salts from one to another. 
Then, as she was tucked into the sleigh, and Un- 
cle Sol touched up old Gray, he sprang on the 
runner, planted a kiss on the tip of her nose, and 
ran off, followed by Franky. 

Miss Jones looked severe for the benefit of the 
little girls, but smiled for her own, as she ordered 
them all to the school-room; and, with a feeling 
that everything interesting had gone out of their 
lives, they went back again to the old work. 

“I don’t feel as if it were I that am going 


SIX SINNERS. 


1 86 

away,” Dora said, at last, some time after they 
had passed the spot where she fell on that miser- 
able night, when Uncle Sol had found her. “ It 
seems just as if I had left the Dora that used to 
be at school or somewhere, and this was a new 
one going home. I can’t tell what I mean. I’m 
the same, inside; and yet I’m different.” 

“ I know,” said grandfather. “ A good many 
such times have come in my life, after dreadful 
sorrows, and even great joys, when it seemed 
to me there was nothing left of the old Winthrop, 
and I had all to begin again.” 

“I know all about it,” said Uncle Sol; “and I’m 
getting to think a life ain’t good for much that 
ain’t mostly upsets. It don’t hurt a man to get 
pretty nigh the ground, so long’s he picks him- 
self up an’ goefi ahead; and it kind o’ puts him 
on his dander when the Lord lays him out every 
now an’ then, an’ he has to fight to get into the 
kingdom. Feather beds ain’t the best things to 
git to heaven on.” 

“That must be one reason why Miss Jones 
won’t have them,” said Dora, with a little laugh. 

“Now, Miss Jones,” said Uncle'Sol, “she’s a 
straight, stiff kind of a woman enough — older’n 


THE END. 


187 


her ma this minit, and full o' cranks as an egg is 
o' meat; an' she was the wildest gal there was 
in the town, an' a handsome gal, too, an' laughin' 
the whole time, till her trouble come." 

Grandfather coughed a little, to warn Uncle 
Sol that perhaps his revelations might better not 
be made before Dora; but Uncle Sol went on: 

‘^Her lover was drowned, you know, going 
over to England. He was to marry her when he 
come back, an' she was making her weddin' fix- 
ins. It pretty nigh killed her, they said ; but she 
held her head up, and never give in. She's 
turned some good women out o' that school o' 
her'n, if she is cranky." 

Dora sat quiet, trying to imagine Miss Jones 
young and gay and in love, and thinking that this 
knowledge might help her another term in bear- 
ing more patiently any small aggravations that 
might arise from her sharp tongue. That was 
a short ride: and it was hard to say good-bye to 
Uncle Sol, who stood over her to the last, with 
tears in his eyes. Dora looked back as the train 
moved away, and saw him still standing, the same 
quaint old figure she had seen in the village 
church, her first Sunday there, but looked at it 
with such different feelings. 


i88 


SIX SINNERS. 


“It’s queer how you don’t know anything 
about somebody,’’ she said, “and then all at once 
think a great deal more of them than may be you 
do of people you have seen all your life.” 

And grandfather said, “It is queer.” 

That night they spent in New Haven, for the 
journey was to be divided up as much as possi- 
ble, to make it easier for Dora, and the next day 
started for Springfield, intending to stay a day or 
two with an old friend of Mr. Winthrop’s. The 
snow fell heavily all night, but stopped in the 
morning ; and the sun shone brightly when they 
went down to the depot. Before they reached 
Hartford it began again ; and the train moved 
more and more slowly as the time went on. 
Dora had found company in a little girl of three 
or four, going to Springfield with her brother, a 
boy of fifteen or sixteen, who was certainly one 
of the nicest boys ever seen, she thought ; for he 
not only took care of the child as gently as a 
woman, but told her stories, and amused her as 
if he really enjoyed it. 

Dora offered little Helen, as she heard her 
brother call her, an orange, which won her heart 
at once, and very soon they were all talking to- 


THE END. 


189 


gether like old friends, so busily that they hardly 
noticed when the train stopped. But when no 
signs of moving on appeared, Harry opened the 
window and put his head out. An unlucky piece 
of work, for a gust of wind, apparently waiting 
for just such a chance, took his hat off and whisk- 
ed it away, nobody could tell where. 

Well, upon my word,’' he said, what shall I 
do now? That’s a pretty job ! ” 

Grandfather opened his bag, and took out a 
soft traveling-cap. 

‘H always carry this to nap in,” he said, ^^and 
you are welcome to it. You live in Springfield, 
don’t you ? Well, I shall stay there over Sunday, 
at Judge Andrews’s, and you can bring it there. 
I’ll give you the street and number.” 

‘H don’t believe you need to,” said the boy, 
laughing. ‘T’m Harry Andrews, and Judge An- 
drews is my grandfather. Mother’s been sick, 
and Helen was sent to aunty’s in New Haven, 
and I went after her yesterday. How queerly 
things happen ! ” 

Dora thought so, as the afternoon wore away, 
and going on became still more impossible. 
They were only two miles from a large town, but 
might have been twenty for all the good it did. 


190 


SIX SINNERS. 


A few of the gentlemen left and struggled 
through the deep drifts, intending to bring back 
sleighs and take off all the passengers. But this 
proved to be impossible. Such a storm had not 
been known for years. All they could do was 
to telegraph for more snow plows, and then give 
their minds to keeping warm. Of course the 
wood gave out in a very short time, but there 
were plenty of fence rails, which the brakemen 
chopped up. Fortunately, there was no baby on 
the train, little Helen coming more nearly under 
that head than anybody, and she looked upon it 
as a good joke. It was, to her, who had unlim- 
ited crackers and ginger snaps, but less so to 
many who were without lunch, and who might 
be kept hungry and waiting the whole night. 

Mrs. Winthrop made up a bed of shawls and 
wrappings on two seats, and tucked away Dora 
and little Helen, who slept comfortably as if at 
home, but it was a hard night for the rest. 

Toward morning the storm lulled, and by 
seven o’clock snow plows had arrived, and they 
were moving along at a snail’s pace to the next 
station. Here they went to a hotel and break- 
fasted, deciding to stay till the road was open, 


THE END. 


I9I 

and telegraphing to Judge Andrews that his 
grandchildren were safe and in their charge ; and 
here they stayed till Monday morning came, with 
warm, cloudless sky, and bright sunshine, which 
was fast turning the drifts into puddles. 

Dora enjoyed heartily their two days in Spring- 
field, going all over the armory with Harry, and 
finding to her great amazement that he was the 
boy whose patent leather pumps had excited 
such rage in George Kinnicutt’s mind. 

Sitting in the library, Harry had said care- 
lessly : 

^'So youVe been at Edgefield at school? 
There's a fellow from there at ours — George 
Kinnicutt." 

‘‘Why, do j/oii know him?" said Dora. 

“Of course I do. I ought to. He played a 
trick on me, and old Bruce flogged him for it." 

“They weren’t pumps !" exclaimed Dora. 

It was Harry’s turn to look astonished. 

“They were my pumps; but I can’t see how 
you know anything about it." 

“She’s got long curls," said Dora, mischiev- 
ously; “but I don’t believe she’s much of a girl, 
to stop dancing with George just because you 
were better looking." 


192 


SIX SINNERS. 


George is a great one, to go and tell you all 
about it. I should have thought he’d have kept 
it to himself.” 

O, he didn’t tell me. I found it out. I find 
out a great many things.” 

‘‘Tell me how,” urged Harry, but in vain, for 
not a word more could he get from Dora, who 
confounded him by relating at full length one or 
two performances he had supposed to be strictly 
private. 

“Oh, well,” he fumed, at last. “Of course 
you know somebody that goes there ?” 

“I don’t,” said Dora. “I never saw anybody 
that went there, till I saw you.” 

“Well, I’ll find out, you may depend,” Harry 
said, but failed to keep his word, and knew noth- 
ing about it till he returned to school, when 
George admitted having told his brother, who 
probably had told her. 

The rest of the homeward journey was suc- 
cessful, and just a week from the day she left 
Miss Jones’s, Dora ran up the steps and into the 
old house, met at the door by Mr. Osgood and 
Jack. This last named young gentleman was 
greeted with some dignity, which he resented at 
once. 


THE END. 


193 


‘4 didn't think you'd come home all stuck 
up," he said, severely. 

‘‘I'm not stuck up," answered Dora. “I never 
shall be ; but I do think you’re a mean boy. Jack 
Winthrop. You were going to write .to me, and 
you haven’t once. Ain’t you ashamed of your- 
self?" 

“You didn’t write to me but once." 

“Well, I couldn’t, because Miss Jones wouldn’t 
let me. But you didn’t have anything else to 
do." 

“Didn’t I, though?" said Jack. “You just 
wait till you come up to your room, and I guess 
you’ll find out." 

“I’ll go now," Dora said, promptly, suiting the 
action to the word, and stopping a moment to 
hug Dilly, who looked at her with tears in her 
eyes. 

“Bless the child," she said. “She ain’t any- 
thing but eyes and bones. Oh, this boardin’- 
school business isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. 
An’ you’re growed right out of everything. 
You’re going to be tall like all the Winthrops." 

“Then I shall be tall too," said Jack. “I’d 
like to be a regular giant, an’ go round exhibit- 
9 


194 


SIX SINNERS. 


ing. Then Vd build a splendid house with the 
money I made, an*, you could come and live with 
me, Dora. Now what do you think about my 
having nothing to do ?” and Jack threw open the 
door of Dora’s room with a flourish, and stood 
one side to watch the effect. 

Everything seemed unchanged, save that a 
little soapstone stove stood under the mantel, 
from which came a soft, delightful warmth ; but 
as Dora went in, on a table by the door appeared 
a gorgeous tin house, from the window of which 
a gray squirrel put his head, while his mate 
whirled in a wheel at the side. 

‘‘ Now, anybody can have squirrels in a cage,” 
said Jack; ‘'but just you look a’ here!” and op- 
ening the cage door, he took a lump of sugar 
from his pocket and held it in his mouth. Both 
squirrels ran out, hesitating a moment as they 
looked at Dora, then running up to Jack’s shoul- 
der, perched there and nibbled the sugar from 
his lips. 

“Now hunt for it, Billy,” Jack said, putting the 
lump in his pocket; and the larger squirrel, nos- 
ing about, soon found it, and perching on the 
window sill began to eat, while Jenny, the smaller 
one, scolded as she found there was none for her. 


THE END. 


I9S 


‘‘I never saw anything so cunning in all my 
life/' said Dora, flying at Jack and putting her 
arms around him. ^‘Are they the squirrels that 
bit you so?" 

^‘The very ones," said Jack, complacently: ‘'and 
I tolled 'em out at last with sugar into the big 
rat trap, an' shut em up in an old cage. This is 
a new one your father sent, and I earned part of 
the money to pay for it. I've had the awfullest 
time taming 'em. They've bit me all to pieces, 
but I didn't care. You ought to see 'em run 
into grandpa's dressing-gown pockets for nuts. 
An' they're both for you, Dora." 

“I shan’t take 'em both," said Dora, decidedly. 
‘T'll keep one and you the other. That’s a great 
deal the nicest way;" and she ran down to tell 
her delight to grandmother. How good all the 
old ways seemed! And best of all, to sit in the 
big chair in Mr. Osgood’s room, and go over all 
the troubles and pleasures of that four months at 
school. Four years at least it seemed, lengthen- 
ing out as all time does into which much experi- 
ence has been crowded. 

The squirrels soon grew to know her as well as 
Jack, and followed her about everywhere. Dilly 


196 


SIX SINNERS. 


declared she should kill them, because they gnaw- 
ed holes in everything, and cut short many pieces 
of mischief by promising both children squirrel- 
pie for dinner. 

Dora surprised herself by almost wishing at 
times to be at school again, or that the most de- 
sirable little girls could be with her. She wrote 
a long letter to Uncle Sol, and in due time re- 
ceived an answer, which altogether overwhelmed 
her, beginning as it did with ‘‘ Honored maddam,’' 
and ending, ‘'Your humble and obedient servant, 
Solomon F. Perkins.’' 

Also came one from Cynthia, written in large 
round text, and evidently carefully overseen by 
Miss Jones; — so carefully that there was not an 
interesting word in it. But a week or two later 
came one bearing every mark of originality, and 
punctuated with blots. And as it gives some de- 
tails you may like to know, I copy it here. 

“deer dora,” it began, “I now take My pen in 
hand to let you know I am in Helth, and hope 
you Are enjoying the same blessing. I miss you 
so I donte know what to Do, and none of us do. 
Miss Jones acts just the same, but Miss Miller 
scolds all the time, and we hate her Worse than 


THE END. 


197 


ever. Sippy acts real good, but she fell down 
stairs yesterday and cut her head, and Miss jones 
keeps her tied up in a wet towel. Miss Miller is 
going to Marry Miss betsey if he ever gets to 
Preaching anywhere, but you mustn’t tell I told 
you. I gess nobody knows but me, but I saw 
them sitting on the sofer, and his Arm around 
her, and she said her father would not be willing 
yet awhile. Ain’t it awful. Franky says george 
has whitewashed the hen-house, and is going to 
black his father’s botes to get Munny to pay for 
those Pumps. I think it is too Bad. Was my 
Cake Good. I want you to write to me, a long 
letter. 

“Your respectful Frend 

“CiNTHiA Almira bostwick.” 

So Dora’s school-days ended, as far as this 
book is concerned. Whether you ever hear more 
of them or not, depends on how well you like 
what I have already written; but should you 
want to know more of her life and all she thought 
and did, I may some day give you other chapters. 


THE END. 



BRIEF BIOGRAPHIES. 

FIRST SERIES. 

Contemporary Statesmen of Europe 

EDITED BY 

THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON. 


These volumes are planned to meet the desire which exists for 
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G. P. PUTNAJVrS SONS have ths pleasure of announcing that 
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GERMAN CLASSICS 


FOR 

AMERICAN STUDENTS. 


EDITED BY 

JAMES MORGAN HART, LL.D., 

Author o/“ German Universities^'^ Graduate of the College of New Jersey, and tJit 
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Now Professer of Mod. Lang, in Vniv. of Cincinnati, 

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il. A Running Commentary, explaining peculiarities in the 
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Schiller,— Wilhelm TeU. 

Maria Stuart. 

Jungfrau von Orleans. 

Wallenstein (3 vols. ). 

Selections from the 
Minor Poems. 

Selections in Prose, 
liessing. — Nathan der Weise. 

Minna von Barnhelm. 

Selections. 


Goethe. — Hermann nnd Doro- 
thea. 

Egmont. 

Iphigenie. 

Tasso. 

Selections from the Ml» 
nor Poems. 
Selections in Prose. 
Herder. — Selections. 
Wieland.— Selections. 


Should the German classics for American students meet with 
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be found desirable. 

The first three volumes are now ready, viz: 

1. Hermann and Dorothea. $1.00. 

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ination on receipt of half the price, and liberal terms will be 
made for introduction. 

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS, 

182 Fifth Avenue^ near 2M Stre'Ct, 














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